


Circling Rul'siat

by dalaire



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adult Content, Alternate Universe, Drama, Epic, F/M, Gen, Graphic Description, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-08-15
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-22 16:14:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 295,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalaire/pseuds/dalaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Troi investigates a pair of troubled guests and opens a grave. Post-Season 7.</p><p>9/29/14:  Real life and a tough chapter have made it very slow going since the last update, but I am working on it.  Thank you for your patience!  I promise, this will be finished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Files

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Circling Rul'siat  
> Author: D'Alaire M.  
> Contact: swiftian@OMITyahoo.com  
> Date Posted: 08/15/2011  
> Series: TNG  
> Rating: M (For **warnings** , please see "more notes" link below)  
> Codes: A/U; T, OCs, Y, m, Y&f, Crew  
> Part: Book I, Chapter 1  
> Disclaimer: Paramount owns Trek; this is just the Plotbunny of Doom. No infringement is intended.  
> 

    "I regret to inform you that there was a complication with the starship you were to board," stated the Vulcan behind the desk.  Hands pressed upon the glossy grey surface, her deep brown gaze was properly immune to the news she must relay.

    Dr. Kerr was properly the opposite.  Rolling her eyes, her gaze then settled on the man nearby her.  Lean but lumpy in his greys and browns, his face well beset by gravity, he furrowed his brow and leaned against the wall, arms crossed.  He seemed to know they should have expected a problem, and he confirmed it with a soft, "Yeah."

    His somber acceptance likewise made Dr. Kerr grumble as neatly as it had twenty years ago.  Crossing her arms tightly over her slight frame, she muttered, "I've got lousy luck with starships."

    He snorted.  "That too.”  He returned his attention to the Vulcan secretary.  "So what happened?"

    "The USS Costalor was recalled to Starbase 211 after an unfortunate incident."

    "It'll be late?" he asked.

    "It will be docked for a full refit of its nacelles."

    "We're taking another transport, then."

    "Another starship with adequate facilities has been redirected to attend the conference at Esos; it will arrive presently."

    "When?"

    "Less than eight hours.  You will arrive on time for the appointed seminar."

    "Which, Vular," said Dr. Kerr, "is all we care about, as you know.”  She looked up at her former commanding officer.  "Eight hours waylaid or miss Kalir?  Is this a decision that needs to be made?"

    "We're supposed to be a part of the advisory team, so it's a non-issue," he agreed then looked at Vular.  "We'll be contacted when it arrives?"

    "Of course, Mr. Castillo."

    "What's the new ferry?" Dr. Kerr asked.

    "It is hardly a 'ferry,'" replied Vular.  "It is the USS Enterprise."

    Her face paled.  "I'll wait the month."

     


* * *

  


****

**  
**  
_1.  Files_  
  


    _Captain's Log:  Stardate 48328.3._

    _We have been diverted from a layover at Starbase 11 to the Betreka Nebula to carry a contingent of scientists and consultants from Starbase 2 to the Mikive Science and Cultural Studies Conference at Esos III.  I have not had the pleasure of attending the conference in several years, so while it does set us behind schedule for the Enterprise's deflector refit, I greatly anticipate seeing in person the archeology seminars on the first and third days, as facilitated by Drs. Ruliv Harg and Vig Prael, and the Cultural Dimensions Conference on day six._

    _For the present, a diverse group of scientists awaits.  I look forward to what promises to be an enlightening experience._

   

* * *

  


    "Thank you again, Captain Picard, for going so far out of your way to bring us to the conference.  I'm certain I speak for my group as a whole when I say, I am endlessly grateful."

    "I'm certain the benefits of the seminars will have been worth any inconvenience, Dr. Prael," replied the captain.  "I look forward to hearing about the recent discoveries at Meketh-6."

    "Ah, an extremely rich study!" lauded Dr. Prael, rubbing his thick, red hands together then clapping them lightly.  "I am anxious to enjoy my honor as the lead facilitator again, but I will happily share some of the highlights, seeing that you have dabbled in the great art.  On the island T'boloth, a new scroll set was uncovered at my direction..."

    On the other side of the briefing room, the professor and local colony administrator shared a look. 

    "Aren't we there yet?" Dr. Kerr complained.

    Mr. Castillo's frown twitched.  "No pain, no gain, Ensign."

    "Clam up, Sammy."

    He opened his mouth, but a heavy sigh betrayed his first response.  So he instead agreed, "Yeah, I'd like to go, too."

    "I wish we'd not heard the door beacon," she said under her breath as her eyes darted about the room.  "I feel as though I'm kicking a coffin."

    "You really know how to put things sometimes."

    Still backed up nearly to the viewport, they watched Dr. Prael continue to monopolize the starch captain as handily as he had assumed the leadership of every other gathering since joining the group at Starbase 2.  At last, though, the archaeologist took a breath--"Sure his kind must respirate, after all," Dr. Kerr declared privately as the pause occurred--allowing just enough space for another in their party to interject. But only two words escaped the physicist's lips before Dr. Prael plowed into another topic of conversation.  The captain's mouth pulled into a patient smile at that point, and he nodded slowly.

    "Probably wishing for a subspace anomaly to throw off the dampers at this point," Mr. Castillo whispered.

    "Thought that was ten minutes ago," Dr. Kerr responded.  "A surprise airlock malfunction would please him well at this point."

    It had been but a courtesy, the invitation to stroll into the esteemed briefing room of the USS Enterprise and receive a personal welcome from the erudite explorer otherwise known as Captain Jean-Luc Picard, who could not have known what he was doing and did not have time to receive fair warning.   "I had read an ancient text about it," he said, his voice louder and more assured that time, a vain attempt to regain some foothold in his own briefing room.  "I found it remarkable they were so well kept.  I believe Dr. Kelo--"

    "Yes, yes, he was there," Dr. Prael nodded, shaking his hand in the air between them.  "His team took the west ridge and suffered few results for all their efforts, I regret.  Oh, but Captain, how it looked when we first unearthed it!  You would think it was just waiting for me to embrace its reentry into--"

    "*Jikkit to Dr. Prael.*"

    "Jikkit, yes?" he answered immediately.

    "You have a communiqué from Dr. Pild.  Shall I tell her you're--"

    "I will be there momentarily!" he chirped and bowed to Picard.  "If you will excuse me!”  With that, he cut between the other scientists and through briefing room doors, as though _he_ had been the one anxious to end the conversation and get on to the business at hand, escaping Captain Picard's polite welcome and subsequent re-shuffle back to the safety of their Deck 10 accommodations.

    Dr. Kerr had already inspected the bunk assignment as a small but well-appointed room that shared a generous living space with Mr. Castillo, whose bunkroom was situated opposite, per Vular's arrangements.  There, they could use the communications array, relax, work and wait in relative comfort and total privacy.  She and her traveling companion would have gladly remained there had they not been herded out for the niceties and more Dr. Prael.  But then, the "facilitator" had ironically earned his title when removed himself, for they both could now say they missed his diverting presence. Now Picard was able to take a turn with his other guests, first with the two astrometric advisors and the geologist Dr. Olbert, with whom Dr. Kerr had already argued.

    "Fargin idiot trying to tell me how the language works," she had hissed several hours ago as she stormed away from their altercation.  "He wouldn't know Latin if it fell out of his erse!"

    Striding up in her wake, Mr. Castillo dragged her into a recess.  "Yeah, probably, but you don't have to announce it," he returned.  "All those years keeping quiet and keeping a low profile, you're doing a great job making up for it today!"

    "The devil's _that_ got to do with it?" she responded.

    "It's got everything to do with _not_ attracting attention!  The ship's bad enough, but people paying any attention to us is not going to be acceptable!  We can't jeopardize Kalir's security, no matter what, and threatening to lobotomize someone in their sleep over dead language grammar sure won't help ensure it!"

    With a blink, Dr. Kerr slumped.  "Sorry.  I mean, you're right.  My nerves, being here...  You know.  Sorry, sir."

    Mr. Castillo let out his breath, nodding.  The cagey Scotswoman never had suffered much of fools and had never gone out of her way to be liked.  He was a fool himself to forget that.  "Not sir anymore, Dacey."

    She snickered, though the sound came and went without amusement.  "Habits die hard.  Few of them have, even with time and life on my side.  And now...  Now I feel like I'm twenty-three again--and that's not a good thing at all, as you well know."

    "I'm not really at ease about any of this, either.  I don't know what we'll get for all of this, why I bothered.  Kalir probably won't be able to give us what we need."

    "Certainly, he'll never give us what we _want_ ," she confirmed with a sigh.  "It cannot change anything, of course, but if there's anything to be had of Kalir, and now that there's a chance at it, I want that much.  This needs to be settled at last."

    "Yeah.”  He patted her arm.  "So let's remember that, okay?"

    Seven hours later, he was having trouble with his own advice as the bald, sharp-eyed captain approached with his hand outstretched and a disciplined but genuine smile turning his mouth.  Mr. Castillo barely felt within his body when he took the man's hand, pressed his fingers with practiced firmness and said something absolutely customary....

    _"How soon can your ship be ready?"_

    _"We sustained moderate damage in the attack. I think we can get underway in a few hours."_

    _"Make it so. We'll give you cover."_

    Mr. Castillo repressed a shiver and voiced a reply he likewise forgot immediately.

    Somewhere in the middle of the fugue, he hoped he didn't come off too badly, but then he had far better occasion for concern when Dr. Kerr became the next in line.  The woman in the black dress and red plaid shawl had already caught the captain's notice, and now fortune allowed her no opportunity to escape what she clearly wanted no part of in the first place--until...

    "*Bridge to Captain Picard*"

    Castillo blew a silent breath through his teeth.

    "Yes, Lieutenant," Picard answered.

    "*Forgive the interruption, Captain, but we are approaching the Tiprik Cluster.*"

    "Thank you, Lieutenant."

    Picard turned back to the scientists.  "As you know, the Betreka Nebula's various anomalies have revealed the ignition of a particle stream inside one of its ternary systems.  Fortunately, our path has taken us to within a light year of the phenomenon, and so my science staff arranged to approach it and give you the opportunity to disseminate the added data we will collect."

    The scientists responded with predictable excitement, and their ample shows of gratitude might have allowed Dr. Kerr and Mr. Castillo, with a less observant captain, to make an escape.  But Captain Picard's keen gaze found them, followed by a cultured gesture toward that other section of the ship.  "You too, Mr. Castillo and Dr. Kerr, are of course welcome to view the cluster," he invited.

    Dr. Kerr had no time for pleading looks.  "Thank you, Captain Picard," Mr. Castillo said and took his companion's arm.  Escorting her into line behind the others, he bent to her ear and whispered, "It'll just take a minute.  Bite your tongue and come on."

    Moving herself behind Dr. Olbert, Dr. Kerr frowned but kept her protests to herself.

    "I apologize for not being able to present an anomaly more suited to your specialty, Mr. Castillo" said Captain Picard aside.

    "It's an honor, Captain, really," Mr. Castillo replied, thankful again for his steady nerves, trained ages ago in his first career but equally ready thanks to two decades in his second.  "In fact, I'm very interested.  I used to use models from this nebula's flare-ups to help redesign the Towl-4 navigation platform."

    "That reformed design is still in use," Picard noted, examining his guest anew.  "You're here to attend the engineering conference?"

    "I might drop in on some of them, but I'm really interested in one of the exo-anthropology seminars on ancient colonization."

    "I had considered that session, myself.  Have you attended the conference before?"

    Mr. Castillo shook his head as they passed through the door.  "No sir.  It's been a long while since I was in this neighborhood."

    Picard's eyes sparked again, but whatever he had observed, he did not voice.  He only offered a polite dip of his chin then moved ahead.

    "Fair way about a low profile, jackass," Dr. Kerr muttered under her breath.  Seconds later, she stepped from the briefing room and onto the expansive bridge of the USS Enterprise.

    _The USS Enterprise._

    Instantly, tears stung her eyes; she gasped a breath then swallowed it against a spring in her pulse.  She hardly noticed the blob in the viewscreen the scientists were fawning over even as she forced her gaze to pin upon it.  Not two steps away, she saw her old comrade having a lot more trouble than before.  He had paled visibly when his gaze cut back and up, irrevocably away from the anomaly.  Much as he'd tried to be a good, curious sort, his stare had locked onto the rear of the bridge, knowing what had been...

    Dr. Kerr could stand no more silence.  Unconsciously, she'd already stepped around the others; lacking any other diversion, she stopped with a jerk of her arms and a deep breath.  "Well, _this_ is quite an improvement," she blurted.  "Pure fine, this!  Indeed, it's...a fine one."

    She realized that she'd spoken.

    Captain Picard turned a raised brow her way.

    Dr. Kerr hid a string of curses behind a smile.  "I've not traveled on such a grand starship in quite a few years," she backpedaled, "and that last one was by no means as impressive a vehicle."

    The captain's responsive pleasantry was enough to allow her to saunter a few steps away and pretend that she was vaguely interested in whatever they had come there to see.

    As the astronomers began to comment on the cluster to the ship's science team and chief engineer, Mr. Castillo had likewise gravitated to the upper level of the bridge to look at the readings.  His eyes darted over them, but his gaze remained heavy.  He glanced at the young men and women on the science team, so full of vigor--even the oldest of them--so alive with efficiency and purpose.  He remembered being like that once.  He remembered _her_ being like that once.

    He wished he didn't.

    His eyes turned to the station behind him, to the well-placed Klingon officer...  But then his eyes glazed and for many moments he felt barely there--there on the bridge, but not _there_ , not then.  And the lights dimmed, and the air changed, thick and bitter in the back of his throat; smells of personnel grew heavy, aged over long shifts.  Their faces reflected the same.  Hard, long faces and eyes that had seen too much, too long--or some too short.  Standing among those officers, she glanced up from her panel, noticing his attention.

    _"Is there a problem, Lieutenant?"_

    But she had not spoken.

    Mr. Castillo blinked, and he gasped a little to catch his lost breath.  Recovering quickly, he flicked a grin at the officer. 

    "Is there a problem?" repeated the security officer, now with appropriate suspicion.

    "It's nothing, Lieutenant," Mr. Castillo answered with a shake of his head.  Feeling a muscle jerk in his chest, he stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and cleared his throat.  "Just an old, old idea, long gone."

    Realizing that his stare was still attracted to the panel, he turned away from it.  Then he saw a science officer sitting on the command row beside the captain's seat.  She had turned a long stare up his way.  The woman's face was pretty and friendly, but her dark eyes scanned him without distraction.  That time, a chill tightened his spine.  "Sorry," Mr. Castillo said and shuffled around to return to the stellar cartography panel.

    Her back turned to the action above, Dr. Kerr had wandered around the conn and science stations, looking for something else to look at.

    "Are you attending the science symposium too?" asked the operations officer at her arm.

    She looked down and smiled at him.  "Oh no, dear," she said, soft, quick and glad for the diversion.  "I'm not in the gas business--but perhaps I'll take some hot wind.”  She sniggered at the man's unhidden lack of understanding.  "I'm just a stuffy linguistics professor here for the sessions on ancient Andorian."

    "Are you well versed?"

    "I should be fluent for all I've worked with them on other linguistic tables; but alas, my skill wants direly for improvement in the old school--and has since _I_ was in school.  I was hoping for some enlightenment--or perhaps the chance to meet someone as befuddled."

    "I would be happy to assist you in any linguistic parameters you are having difficulty with," he offered.

    "How kind you are, Data.  Thank you!"

    He blinked and reexamined her.  "Have we met?"

    She coughed a laugh as a stroke of heat flushed her face.  "Oh, no, no, no, we've not met," she apologized, wringing her hands together.  "I know your face.  Please forgive my presumption, sir."

    "I was not insulted," he informed her. 

    "I'm Dr. Dacey Kerr," she recovered with a bow of her head.

    "It is good to meet you."

    "A pleasure, truly, Lieutenant Data, and thanks for your offer, too."

    "May I contact you at sixteen hundred hours?"

    "I wish you would, sir."

    Unmoved in her seat, Commander Troi observed the woman standing forward.  The professor had relinquished Data only to return to her pacing and fumbling with the pendant on her necklace before finally giving up the forward bridge to return to her brown-clad, balding traveling companion on the upper bridge, her knee-length dress kicking up with each step.

    Troi turned forward again, focusing on the feelings in the room to find again those very strong ones, within the voices...

    "Thank you for inviting us," Mr. Castillo finally said.  "It was quite an honor, Captain Picard."

    "I hope we will meet again at the conference, Mr. Castillo."

    "I'd like that," he returned.

    Moments later, they had gone.

    Their impressions remained.

    Commander Troi's eyes closed and remained that way for several long moments, until her captain had returned to his seat and lowered himself into it.  Feelings and voices swam around her, and again, she focused on what she had sensed before.  Opening her eyes, drawing a slow breath, she let the emotions take another turn within her.  It left her very still...still and unsure.

    Captain Picard looked at her.  "Problem, Counselor?"

    "I'm not certain."

    Another minute passed.  Lieutenant Data rose from his seat and excused himself from the bridge for Main Engineering.  Ensign Misho replaced him.

    Picard remained patient for his answer.

    She could sense that, too, and so she nodded to herself and looked at him at last.  "There's something that's...not apparent about Mr. Castillo and Dr. Kerr."

    "Can you tell what it may be?"

    "No, I can't.  There's more to them than what they're saying.  They're both deeply disturbed.  When they came onto the bridge, their prevailing emotion was dread, and they shared a keen desire to escape.  Mr. Castillo was calm, but he's also...  He has no enthusiasm about the conference.  He has another purpose.  They both do, though Dr. Kerr's purpose is...personal.  And she lied to Data.  She knows him."

    Picard's brow furrowed.  "Why would she lie about that?"

    "I don't know," the commander answered, still adrift in her impressions.  "There is a...a great want in them both--a sense of despair, and yet an agenda, and it's focused on something or someone here.  At the same time, their thoughts are not here and now.”  She drew a breath and decided with a press of her hands on her knees and a nod to herself.  At last, she looked at the man next to her.  "With your permission, Captain, I'd like to investigate their records, perhaps speak with them if they'll let me."

    The captain nodded.  "By all means, Counselor.  Keep me apprised."

    "Yes, Captain."  


* * *

  


    "There, that's the one."

    "Are you looking for something specific?"

    "No, just the background for now," Commander Troi answered as she slid into the seat in front of the station to read.  "Thank you, Worf."

    "Is there trouble?" he asked her.

    She thought about that--yet again, for she too was conditioned to consider potential danger first.  But she shook her head and entered her clearance code to access the full record.  "Yes, here.  Interesting."

    Lieutenant Worf looked and blinked.  A human about his age had appeared, with curly brown hair, deeply set hazel eyes, a mouth poised on a grin and a strong upright posture.  He wore a Starfleet uniform of the last issue, deep red with heavy insignia.  The Klingon's brow flicked up to regard it, and Troi smiled to feel the rush of admiration.  Worf always had thought it a handsome uniform.  Then, looking more closely, the wearer's face struck him.  "Our guest," he said.

    "He was a lieutenant," Troi confirmed, reading.  "He served on the Enterprise C before the Narendra-Three incident nearly twenty-eight years ago; he was the chief conn officer.  He served in Starfleet for almost twenty years and was awarded twice for valorous service."

    Worf expressed a puff of respect.

    Troi moved on to the next record.  "Just as I thought," she nodded at the youthful visage that greeted her.  The subject was likewise pictured in Starfleet red.  Her black ringlets were pinned neatly back, making her dark blue eyes seem almost too large for her plain, fair face.  "Ensign Dacey Kerr.  She also served on the Enterprise C...  Yes, there:  She served for only six months, right out of the Academy--which is right.  I would not have imagined them to serve together because of the difference in age.  She's only fifty."

    "She looks older."

    "No, she looks anxious," Troi thought aloud.  "She's...lost.  They both have lost a great deal."

    Moving through the summary file, she noted how they had both retired from Starfleet in 2344, the year of the Narendra-Three battle, which had destroyed the Enterprise C and its crew--according to that record.  Having a moderately high security clearance afforded the counselor a great appreciation of how personnel records were precise but could be shrewd where needed.  Even officers with her security clearance had to dig for details at times.  When it came to interstellar incidents where personnel had perished, Starfleet often employed impressive artistic license while maintaining both truth and accessibility.  So Troi stopped and looked over the summary again.

    "It doesn't say the entire crew perished," she said then pointed at the next row.  "And their records have an eight year gap in them.  Mr. Castillo returned to Starfleet as a civilian advisor for three years before moving on to colony administration; Dr. Kerr teaches evolutionary linguistics.  But for eight years following Narendra, there's nothing."

    "They were captured," Worf deduced.  "They were detained for that time, probably were forced to labor for their enemy then offered in trade.  Often at the request of Starfleet Command, it is not included in personnel files, particularly if there are disagreeable arrangements involved."

    "I'm not reading a general release file," she reminded him.

    "They may have requested privacy," he said, staring at the pilot's image again.  "Would I have been subjected to such dishonor and forced to survive, I too would choose anonymity."

    "It could have been that," Troi said, feeling the guests' anxiety again when she remembered their present facades.  "Being aboard this ship, particularly when they hadn't planned to be, may well bring back hard memories.  But there's...more.  I think I will need to speak with them."

    "Do you think they might be a danger to the ship?"

    "I can't say.  I sense no malice in them, but they are hiding something, and they have a plan."

    Worf considered that.  "When they were summoned to the observation lounge, they did not ask for directions, unlike the others, who requested a guide."

    Troi looked at him, but she had no reply.

    She pulled the two files up again, staring deeply at their young faces, seeing the hope and promise in their eyes.  In Lieutenant Castillo, it was an easy confidence, a pilot's sensibility well matured and tested.  His equal dependability and talent with people made him a prime candidate for promotion, and then a captaincy once the conduit would open for him.  He'd had an excellent career.  Ensign Kerr's expression radiated wit and boldness.  A junior officer fresh from the Academy, she was already married to another young science officer assigned to McKinley Station; in 2344, she was just starting out.  Though her voice was soft and lilting, her words were quick and ready.  Judging from the minor infractions noted in her disciplinary record, she was probably quite bold in her youth, plowing into mistakes and ever learning, ready to do it all.

    Now that was gone.  Had they been captured and detained for eight years, as Worf had suggested, they both would have lost their careers and a good portion of their peak years, Kerr her twenties, Castillo the last of his thirties and half of his forties.  Judging by their records, however, selective as they were, the two had managed to move on.  He was a successful administrator and the father of three; Dr. Kerr likewise returned home and soon earned her PhD.  Her only child was still in junior school.  They had taken every advantage of their homecoming.

    But again--and it nagged her now--there was more.  There was pain, there was frustration; there was longing coupled with hopelessness, and a plan.  They had an agenda, and it had nothing to do with the conference.  She was certain of that now.

    "There were seven other survivors," Worf said abruptly and pulled up the remaining files.

    Troi glanced at the record headers, but then her gaze turned back to the two she must understand.  She could feel their haunted expressions in her heart; her gut pulled to think of the looks she'd caught on the bridge just before, looks of survival...and want.

    Indeed, they had suffered incredible loss.  Being on the Enterprise intensified that feeling, so much so that Troi might even feel it in them even then, decks away.

    "I will speak with them."  


* * *

  


    The Deck 10 central guest accommodations were designed for optimum comfort during a visitor's stay aboard the Enterprise.  Assuming the travelers were not space bound as commonly as the denizens of the starship, every amenity was provided.  Multiple guests generally shared a unit:  Two to four private quarters with a common living area between them, sometimes also a row of small bedrooms interconnected by a central lounge. There, guests could live with relative independence during their journey, were they not inclined to socialize.

    Commander Troi learned that Vular, a Vulcan secretary in the Office of Agricultural Affairs at Starbase 2, had immediately secured one of their most generous accommodations for the professor and administrator when the Enterprise was diverted to pick up the Costalor's planned visitors.  The two enjoyed a two suite unit with a large common room and a surprisingly high level of security for all of their communications.

    According to Lieutenant Camar, who had reviewed and approved the request, Dr. Kerr required the increased encryption. Troi then learned that in addition to teaching, Dr. Kerr was a civilian consultant possessing surprisingly high clearance.  The fact was acceptable enough, but Troi had to wonder about the position.  The professor was well qualified, but Starfleet had excellent linguists within their ranks; there was little need to outsource such a sensitive position, particularly to someone who had never risen above the rank of junior ensign.  Not that it was impossible, but it was unusual, adding to the rest of the mystery about the guests.

    There was also the matter of their quick arrangements being made by a Vulcan agricultural office.  Digging further, Troi found out that the actual orders were approved by a trio of high-ranking officials in the Vulcan government.

    Clearing her monitor, Troi pressed her hands against her seat and stood for the door.  Even if she learned nothing more, even if their clearance was well above hers, her curiosity and concern were enough to try for some answers.

    She entered the common guest area and carefully checked the suite doors.  The counselor did not often go to that section of Deck Ten in recent years, and she certainly did not want to ring Dr. Prael's quarters, for what she had heard of him.  Coming around to the very rear of the section, she checked the ID on the doorjamb LED.  As she did, the door opened.

    "This ship--of all ships!" was the exasperated hiss that greeted her.  Dr. Kerr had her hands thrown in the air as she steamed toward the viewport.  "How could you have let this happen?"

    "It wasn't my fault and you know that!" Mr. Castillo retorted.  "I didn't tell Vular to send off the Costalor, and I sure as hell couldn't have arranged the Federation's flagship to take their place any more than the USS Pussycat!"

    Dr. Kerr flung herself around again but stopped on a dime when she saw the woman standing there.  Her companion followed suit.

    Troi tried for an offhanded grin.  "That's a name I'm sure they didn't think of at Utopia Planitia," she said, "though I admit, it has character."

    Mr. Castillo snorted.

    "I apologize for coming in like that," Troi continued.  "The door was unlocked."

    "Mea culpa--again," sighed Dr. Kerr.  "I already let the foghorn in that way."

    Troi took another couple of steps in.  "We haven't met yet.  My name is Deanna Troi.  I'm the ship's counselor."

    "How nice," the other woman muttered as she turned to throw her shawl on a chair.

    "I came here with the hope of speaking with you a little," Troi continued, "if you don't mind."

    "What about?" asked Mr. Castillo.

    "I noticed when you were on the bridge that something was wrong."

    Turning back, Dr. Kerr stared evenly at her that time.  "Betazoid?" she queried.

    "I am half Betazoid."

    "And you've read our thoughts?"

    The quiet, even tone hid nothing of the woman's panic at the prospect.  Troi was doubly even-toned when she answered, "I only have empathic skills."

    Though a little relieved, Dr. Kerr looked angrily at her companion.  "You know, there's not a ship I can get on in two quadrants without a headache, and all without my lifting a bloody finger."

    "That's because you're special, Dacey," he smirked.

    "Shove it, _sir._ "

    Before they could rebound again, Troi spoke again. "May I ask if anything is wrong?"

    "That you're here to pry in our affairs is a start," Dr. Kerr replied.  "Why should you need to?"

    Again, Troi chose to be truthful.  The professor's state of mind in particular would not tolerate subtlety, she suspected.  "I sensed a great distress in you both, and strong desire for secrecy.  I felt that you were not interested in the conference, but something important having to do with this ship or someone on it.  And now I feel a fierce sense of protectiveness."

    "Precisely that!  I'm protecting myself!”  Dr. Kerr's large eyes now hardened into a glare.  "Myself and mine from intrusions when I've not done a thing to deserve suspicion!  My business is my own, and I can feel as I please. You've got no cause to suspect me of anything."

    Troi was immediately taken aback by the woman's charge, quiet still but all the more harsh for it.  Beneath the hostility, she was terrified upon voicing "intrusions," though both impressions were equally powerful.  But the professor _was_ correct.  They neither of them had done anything to warrant suspicion--not there nor in any part of their records.  Then again, the records were incomplete.  So, Troi took a breath, centered herself and tried again.  "Particularly in these times, Dr. Kerr, it's my job to investigate any guests I feel are not what they seem to be.  And you and your companion are _not_ what you seem to be."

    "How do you puzzle that?"

    "You lied to Data," Troi answered.

    "I did nothing of the sort!"

    "You have met him," Troi persisted.

    "I didn't meet _him_ ," Dr. Kerr insisted then looked at Mr. Castillo.  "You can pull some duty and have a word or two of your own any time you like, sir."

    His hands plunged into his pockets as he bent his head.  Then he drew a slow breath, pushing his shoulders down.  "You're a counselor," he said at last, and then met her eyes.  "That means you have to follow the rules of confidentiality, right?"

    That time, Dr. Kerr's face soured with disgust.  "That's not at all what I was asking you to--"

    "I'm sure she has enough clearance," he pointed out.

    "I couldn't give a care who's got what or where!  What the devil are you thinking of _doing_ , after barraging _me_ with protocol?"

    Mr. Castillo kept his eyes on Troi.  "Let me ask you this:  If we tell you nothing, say it's nothing you need to worry about and tell you to go away with these feelings you've got about us, will you do that, or are there going to be more questions from higher up?"

    "Well, now you _know_ there will be," Dr. Kerr grumbled.

    "How big an issue is this going to become?" he pressed, undeterred.

    Troi sighed.  The man was as politic as Dr. Kerr was defensive.  Their dissimilarities could easily bemuse her.  However, they did share a great unhappiness and private panic about the present situation, and so she chose to concentrate on that.  Carefully, she answered, "Like I told Captain Picard--"

    Dr. Kerr coughed.  "You've reported us to your captain for having _feelings_?"

    "Like I told my captain," Troi repeated firmly, "I have enough questions about the nature of your arrangements here and your unusual discomfort and paranoia to feel the need to investigate.  I can and will keep our conversation entirely confidential under the condition that there is no threat to this ship, its crew or the Federation."

    "Fargin' Federation's what _got_ us here in the first place."

    "And it's too late to change that!" Mr. Castillo snapped.  He looked at Troi again.  "So, I'm right to assume we won't be left alone until you get to the bottom of your problem?"

    "Your problem, too, apparently," Troi replied.  "Aside from the despair I felt on the bridge, I feel your sense of loss and longing now.  You've given up a great deal...and you never recovered."

    "Precisely that," Dr. Kerr stated.  "We're _sad._ Now get on, you.  Mind your own business and let the past lie."

    Troi paid her no more attention, focusing on Mr. Castillo.  "I read your records--what there was of them."

    "I figured you had, if you knew you'd be coming here."

    "Interestingly, there weren't even any secondary reports of you and your crewmembers' return to the Federation.  It seemed you all went out of your way to not let anyone know there were any survivors from the Enterprise C."

    That brought Dr. Kerr to a pause.  At last, Troi noticed, the woman had stilled--frozen--both emotionally and mentally.  The change was striking, even frightening.  Mr. Castillo in his turn reflected hard upon that point.

    "The incident at Narendra-Three was such a milestone in Federation history," Troi continued.  "I admit I was surprised that no information about it is publicly available after this many years. We only have a record of the Klingon survivors' experience, despite nine survivors of the Enterprise still alive, well and living among us today."

    "You don't know much about it because, yes, it was a purposefully quiet homecoming," Mr. Castillo told her, finally moving to the sofa.  He gestured for her to join him.  "Hell, you don't know anything, if the gist and the influence is all you could read.  They really did keep a lid on it.” 

    Troi lowered herself onto the plush chair adjacent to the former lieutenant, who was studiously neutral about his decision to speak.  In a way, he seemed to need to say something, but the idea also sharpened his sadness and feelings of caution.  As for his companion, the professor had taken a seat at the desk near the back of the room, her eyes turned to the floor, her mouth pressed shut.  The terror she had felt only a minute ago had dissolved.  It was too late now for fear, perhaps.

    Considering again, Troi asked her, "Are you permitted to talk about this, Dr. Kerr?"

    "There's nothing here to do with my work," she answered, now in but a whisper, and Troi felt the professor's despair, which had always been there behind her predisposition to fight.  The dichotomy was an old pair, Troi observed, familiar to the woman.

    "We'll have to let our contacts know about it," Castillo told her as he at last sat too, immediately sinking into the cushions, "and you will be required to keep this conversation absolutely confidential.  Without meaning to sound dramatic, Commander, the lives of the people who rescued us are at stake--them and their families, even these two decades later.  Part of why we kept things quiet was for them."

    "But not only them," Troi observed.

    Mr. Castillo paused, stricken again into thought.  "Yeah," he quietly said and looked at Dr. Kerr.  Opening his mouth when he caught her stare, he sighed and gave his attention back to Troi.  "What I'm going to tell you can't leave this room, Commander.  Do I have your word, as a professional?"

    Troi bent her head in a solemn nod.  "You have my word, Mr. Castillo.  Excepting any information pertinent to the safety of this ship and its crew, this conversation will remain between the three of us."

    He nodded back and slowly began, "There were only ten survivors on our Enterprise after the Narendra Incident.  We were captured--no surprise, right?  A few arrangements later, we were assigned to slave labor at Rul'siat, a fertile region on a far northern continent of Romulus.  We were assigned to the produce unit of a large compound there, where we picked and packed food and helped maintain the farm with about sixty others. 

    "Seven and a half years later in Federation Standard time, we were smuggled off the compound and out of Romulan space by a Vulcan branch of the Romulan underground.  We crossed to the Neutral Zone by way of Nimbus in what's best described as a 'slow boat'--a small reconnaissance ship called the Mindra.  That took us seven months.  Once we got to the Neutral Zone and then the Nesig-Ros science station, a Vulcan vessel picked us up and took us back to Earth to report to Starfleet Command...."  
  -  
 

    "Then we were brought here," Lieutenant Castillo concluded to the five Admirals seated before him, their forms reflected in the smoked glass table beneath their well-tended fingers.  Behind them, a glorious San Francisco morning shone outside.  Gulls coasted outside of the windows; an occasional transport streaked by in the distance.  He'd be on one soon, on his way to a starship, and then to home to Hannev, to his mother, who waited anxiously to see him in person after three sessions over subspace, each over two hours long.  He'd already made plans to look into working at the Starfleet unit back home, a kind of respite before he felt ready to decide what else to do.

    "You and your crew have had quite an experience," said Admiral D'Vall as sympathetically as he could given the formality of the occasion.

    "Yes, Admiral."

    "Your homecoming couldn't have come too soon, Lieutenant," added Admiral Martez, her hands likewise folded neatly together, her voice radiating control.

    "Yes, Admiral."

    His boots were too tight.

    Having spent almost eight years in the rough but loose gear of the typical Romulan tevol'oc, dreaming of sticking it to their caste system by standing tall in a uniform again, his rank restored, his freedom certain, he was still trying to believe he was just that, and now conflicted by the feel of that slick fabric on his skin and his feet encased in polymer.  Nothing felt right now: The air was hot and wet and the food didn't taste like much.  Even the chemical smell of the room assailed his senses.

    Now he stared at the select group of officials, who looked at him and the others with both pity and suspicion--much as their fellow tevol'oc had done upon their arrival at Rul'siat, he noticed with some pain.  But well they should, considering.  Why should they trust anything about them?  They would be fools to accept those beaten officers out of hand, even with DNA confirmation and several reports from the crews of the Mindra and the Botekko.

    "As you now know, Lieutenant," Admiral Martez continued, "the Federation has written a new treaty with the Klingon Empire.  Certainly, you can understand its importance to both our peoples and theirs."

    "Yes, Admiral, I do," Castillo returned, his heart sinking with memory.  "I do most sincerely."

    "Reminders of the Narendra Incident at this time, despite your sacrifice's positive effect on our relations with the Klingon Empire, might incite some hostilities that would be detrimental to the process of this treaty."

    "Excuse me," said Ensign Innivra, stepping forward.  "But are you ordering us to keep this quiet?  Everything that happened to us and our crew on the Enterprise?"

    Castillo put his hand on the ensign's arm.  "If she's not, I am.  For Kalir and his crew's security, the safety of his ship, it _should_ stay in this room, and we should simply be glad we can do that at all.  It's better than anything we expected at Narendra.  We need to remember that."

    He wished he felt as confident as his words.  He wished he felt something besides defeated, and that he had lost a lifetime back there...more than one lifetime.  He _had_ lost, again and again, and would continue to....

    "It's time to start over, and be thankful we're home, unlike the others."

    Innivra's eyes turned down as he backed off.  The others likewise nodded, a couple muttering, "Yes, sir.”  Ghostly and pressed against the wall behind them, Dacey was as silent as she ever was anymore.  When Castillo looked at her, her glassy stare turned to the floor.  It was the best answer he knew he was going to get from her.

    Castillo looked at the general again.  "Admiral, I don't think you'll have any problems from us.  If some good is going to come from what happened at Narendra, I think I can speak for everyone when I say we're all for keeping it entirely confidential."

    He wanted his sandals back.  He couldn't believe he wished he'd kept them.

    He pulled a heavy breath.  "We just want to go home."  
  -  
 

    "We all needed to disappear," Mr. Castillo finished, "and most of us really wanted to.  More than that, we all knew how important it was to, considering how we managed to get out of Romulan space and what'd been in the works while we were gone.  So none of us complained.  We went home, reunited with our families and settled in.  It felt good--and it felt good to move on to other things.  For me, fifteen years in Starfleet and eight in Romulan space was a career.  Getting married and having kids became the next one."

    "And for me, getting back to the family, the lot, seeing they all were still there and unchanged," Dr. Kerr added, a little less tense now that her companion had completed his story.  "Though, my old mucking boots hadn't suffered improvement."

    "Good you didn't live on a chicken farm," Mr. Castillo returned.

    "Terribly funny, you," she frowned.  "I still don't like eggs."

    "Her success in the vineyard was such," Mr. Castillo told Troi, "that Badock assigned her to field the crussu nests for a season."

    "I never thought anything would be eviler than sheep," Dr. Kerr muttered blackly.  Troi felt a pull in her chest, sensing the depth of the professor's malaise, of which obviously Mr. Castillo was ignorant.  But a moment later, the woman recovered with a breath, and she at last looked at Troi with something other than dread.  "And I never thought I'd see an Enterprise again, and in such fine form," she said.  "I should have told your captain in all my pother up there:  It's a wonder to behold."

    "I would think a great deal would be different to you," Troi observed, offering a small smile for the other woman's effort.

    "Indeed!  And a pure pleasure, though admittedly, I'd not had a year in the ranks before Narendra.  I can hardly speak as the voice of experience.”  On her other side, Mr. Castillo snorted and she turned a thin stare his way.  "I got it elsewhere.”  Leaning over, Dr. Kerr tapped on the chronometer.  "Aye, and memory lane's at an end.  We're expected in five."

    Mr. Castillo breathed a groan.  "Now I'm wondering which is worse."

    Troi smiled.  "Dr. Prael?"

    Dr. Kerr stood and grabbed her shawl.  "Part of joining this conference was having to bear through that baheid.”  With a sweep of her arm, she flung the shawl over a shoulder then tucked the front through her belt.  "Sure we haven't got a convenient cosmic accident to send us all to quarters for the duration?"

    "I'm afraid not," Troi said, laughing.  "Not any that we can plan as quickly as you need it, that is.  However, space is unpredictable.  You might get lucky."

    "Not likely about this rig," Dr. Kerr rejoined and breezed past them.  "See you there, sir," she said once at the door, and then to herself, "Know bloody well what _I_ think's worse."

    Straightening his sweater with a few brushes of his hands, Mr. Castillo just shrugged and gestured for the commander to lead the way.  


* * *

  


    Troi awakened with the remnants of a dream:  Faces, voices, memories....

    Sliding out of her bed, she moved around it and into her living room.  Crossing, she had almost approached the replicator, but found herself instead in front of the viewport, staring at the shifting stars in the rich silence.

    Mr. Castillo's face flitted behind her eyes, mixing with his younger incarnation, ever lurking in an all but abandoned Starfleet file.  Sixty-four, he had retained a long, gradual gait that ushered self-assurance.  But his eyes reflected the weight within him, as did his long, tan hands each time he pushed them into his pockets and slumped with resignation.

    And yet, he probably knew well that any resignation could not be worse than the one he'd lived through.  Very little in his life could surpass Narendra.

    The Narendra Incident had taken place almost twenty-eight years ago--a brutal response by Romulan forces to a Federation starship's answering a Klingon colony's call for assistance.  Captain Rachel Garrett had come from a routine survey several light years away, and in the last hour of her life, she fought a band of Romulan warbirds and several smaller cruisers.  According to the Klingon report, she destroyed several foes before her ship was picked apart by the lead warbird.  In the end, the starship hurled itself into its closest aggressor, firing off its remaining torpedoes and phasers in an impressive attempt to do the most damage they could with what shards they had left. 

    The valor and sacrifice of the Starfleet ship in its attempted defense of the Klingon colony was unmatched at that time; the Klingon Empire's view of Starfleet and the Federation was forever altered by it.  Still, little was known about the actual battle:  No transmissions from Captain Garrett had been salvaged, probably due to the massive damage immediately inflicted on the ship and spatial disturbances in the area.  It was only known that after the last rousing push into the offensive forces, the Romulan warbirds finally crushed the lone ship and devastated the colony.  Only a handful survived to tell the tale.  It was assumed that the entire crew of the Enterprise C had perished.

    Indeed, most did.

    Twenty-eight years ago...

    Troi relinquished the window for her desk.  Once there, however, she hardly knew what to look for.  A full minute passed as she stood with a hand on the back of her chair and stared at the black screen before her, remembering their words, their confirmation, though brief, and their feelings, so strong...and yet anguishing....

    Something was missing.

    The Enterprise C, so viciously beaten and honorably remembered, did not suffer a replacement for two decades, when the Enterprise D was commissioned. 

    Mr. Castillo and Dr. Kerr didn't want to be on the Enterprise D.  As soon as Troi noticed them coming onto the bridge, it was apparent that they wanted nothing but to get away from it...and more than it in itself.  Something in particular disturbed them.  Anxiously, Dr. Kerr had made herself busy at the operations stations, not following the others to the upper bridge; Mr. Castillo tried to pay attention to the stellar cartography panels, but instead had been drawn to Worf's station....

    _"Just an old, old idea, long gone..."_

    Even as she had accepted Mr. Castillo's explanation the evening before as truth, she knew he was purposefully withholding more.

    The crew had not all been killed, but rather had been captured by their Romulan foes...twenty-eight years ago.

    _"There were ten survivors of the Narendra Incident."_

    Troi furrowed her brow.  The record had said there were nine.  It made no mention of anyone perishing after the battle.

    On the bridge, the word "lieutenant" caused him the most pain. It was what had made her turn to examine him.

    Dr. Kerr had not been presumptuous, and her denials were stated without support.  She had met Data.

    The survivors were taken to Romulus.  An arrangement kept them alive until they were smuggled off the planet seven and a half years later.  A Romulan year was longer a Federation Standard year by over a quarter.

    Troi felt her blood drain from her head and her gut tighten in to a knot as she mentally calculated that. She sank into her chair, her eyes still locked on the empty screen. 

    It couldn't be... 

    "Could it...?"

    Twenty-eight years ago...  


* * *

  


    "I hope it's not inconvenient."

    "Not at all, Commander.  I'm a few hours from bed.  My schedule's messed up.  Besides, I had a feeling you'd be back, since we kind of had to end things in the middle.” 

    Still standing in the door of the guest quarters, Mr. Castillo grinned and let Troi in with a gesture.  It was a genuine regard, and he had not lied about his lack of surprise.  Rather, he seemed relieved at her reappearance, as though he had been waiting and was glad to have that wait end.

    "I was just about to make some snacks," he said.  "Would you like some?"

    She'd already had something to eat, but she decided to let him be welcoming.  "Thank you, I would."

    His hands hammocked in the spacious pockets of his heavy cardigan, he padded over to the replicator and called up a glass bowl with an assortment of exotic fruit and a side of cheese and pepper crackers, much to Troi's pleasure.  As the tray and items appeared, he rolled his shoulders and crossed his arms to inspect the output, his deep-set eyes catching each item.  At last, he nodded to himself and picked it up. 

    He moved across to the seating area.  Turning, Troi noticed to her surprise that Dr. Kerr was already on the sofa, undressed to a soft lounging shift, her dark-stockinged feet tucked tightly under her.  She had a PADD in her hand and an empty glass at her elbow, and she was so quiet and still within herself to be almost indistinguishable from the plants in the room until she met the commander's glance.  Small-framed without her shawl, dress and boots, with large eyes on a fair, heart-shaped face, she was almost waif-like, though the blank look she shot across the room held no youth.  Rather, caution filled her as she focused on the returning intruder, and she did not try to hide it from Troi, knowing Troi could easily read it.

    Troi now understood why she would feel as she did.  Very few outside the Enterprise's senior staff were privy to the intelligence the troubled administrator and professor had lived.  If Mr. Castillo's story about what they did reveal to Starfleet Command was correct, then the whole truth remained between the nine survivors.

    Now that Troi suspected that truth, she felt as anxious to reveal it as they were to retain it.  But she knew she must tread gently and act reassuringly.

    Mr. Castillo sat in the chair next to the one he offered her, then fixed himself a full plate.  Waiting until she had served herself then had a bite, he leaned back and crossed his legs.  Taking two pieces of brown-spotted cheese, he sandwiched them in two crackers, popped the bite into his mouth and chased it down with a thick slice of red citrus.  Taking his time to chew and swallow, satisfying his immediate hunger, he gave her his full attention again.  "Now," he said with an air of fatherly congeniality, "where had we left off?"

    Troi rested her plate on her crossed leg.  "Actually, Mr. Castillo, I would like to start again at Narendra--and with any luck, you can help complete some information we came across a couple of years ago."

    "What information is that?"

    "You've answered me about your records.  But I'm still curious about your ship.”  Troi tried not to pause too heavily, there.  Dr. Kerr's attention had piqued, and Troi did not want to fight her way to the truth. Purposefully, she kept her attention centered on Mr. Castillo.  "There has been a great deal of speculation surrounding the fate of the Enterprise C."

    "Yeah, I'll bet there has.  Actually, I know there has."

    "What is not understood," Troi continued with increasing care in her wording and tone, now feeling his unease, too, rise beneath his easy tenor, "because it had been believed there were no credible sources to confirm it, is your former ship's effect...on the timeline we inhabit."

    He paused, at last on a spot from which he could not safely escape.  Measuring her again, he turned a long look at Dr. Kerr, whose icy stare was already nailed on him, blaming him, and probably rightly.  Knowing this, his posture fell slightly and asked once more, softly, "Confidentially?"

    Troi returned the examination.  In that moment, she confirmed how the two's quiet anxiety was an oddly comfortable state of mind, one that had been residing in them a long time.  Merely the cause of their issues had festered differently:  His had settled into hard won acceptance, a sadness he did not try to quell anymore; her despair remained like spears in her psyche, though ironically, she seemed to cope equally well with it. 

    But they did not appear to be a danger, so Troi chose to trust and said, "Yes, as I said last night, our conversation will be entirely confidential, barring any overriding security issues."

    "No security issues anymore, Commander. No more.”  Castillo pulled a thin yellow PADD from his pocket.  He didn't open it, or even look down at it.  His taking it out was probably even an unconscious gesture, as he merely folded it between his long, well-worked fingers and continued, "From the first _minute_ of the battle at Narendra, we were torn apart left and right.  We were surrounded by four warbirds and a few smaller ships, more maneuverable and armed to the gills.  No way could we win it, and we knew it. 

    "But just as we were trying to devise a miracle, a spatial rift opened in the middle of the field and we were pulled into it.  Long story short, we ended up on...well, _here_ , facing this Enterprise.  But here wasn't _here_ , the Enterprise D wasn't really this ship.  Well, it _was_ this ship, and it had a lot of the crew you know, but things were very different.  Everything had been changed by our disappearance from Narendra.  We had moved twenty-two years ahead of our time, into a bleak and violent future.

    "We soon found out that our fight at Narendra was pivotal:  Our battle there was supposed to have impressed the Klingon Empire, which brought them to the bargaining table and helped make the treaty that's still around today.  We learned this on a ship in a timeline that _didn't_ enjoy the treaty, but instead had fallen into a catastrophic war with the Klingon Empire, billions dead and winding down in a bad way.  Entire planets had been liquidated, colonies destroyed...  Catastrophic probably doesn't do that war justice. I stopped wanting to know any more about it after only a few explanations.

    "I don't remember you from the ship I'd visited," Mr. Castillo added, looking her over again; then he shrugged.  "But they lived on a pretty thin chain; the Enterprise D that I saw had only what it needed, save one or two perks to keep the crew diverted, Ten Forward and a holodeck, though that was used mostly for training.  There weren't any families or guest quarters like this, just a lot of personnel and a several decks worth of artillery.  They probably kept their psychologists on base, which makes sense.  It was a war--and they were losing it. 

    "At first, the idea was to stay and help them out, but not many of us were up for that.  When we learned how we'd affected the course of history and that the other timeline had to be corrected--had to be restored--we were even more anxious to go back and finish the battle and prevent that other timeline from existing.  And so we did.  We fought to the death because we knew we should--we had to.”  His eyes turned down.  "At least one of us wanted that.  But that didn't happen for everyone.  A few of us got...lucky."

    His stare wandering askance momentarily, Mr. Castillo gave Troi his full attention again.  "Now the ship, yeah, the Enterprise was dismantled, no question.  They probably used the tritanium to case the next rounds of torpedoes they threw the Klingons' way. The rest of any evidence the Enterprise might have provided never made it to Romulus. They didn't have our personnel files because they were dumped alongside the tactical and astrometric databases, and all of the logs.  Not that they needed them, or even seemed to want them.  The commanders there immediately scheduled us for public execution."

    "But you weren't executed," Troi said slowly, even as she felt her heart quicken at the confirmation he was nearing.  He was intent now that the subject was turning that way--intent but equally careful to not add that last detail.  He had already begun to swerve away from what came after--more, who had been there with him and the others.  "You said last night that some arrangements were made.  Someone made a deal for you...”  She paused to watch his eyes briefly widen.  "I believe I know who it was."

    Mr. Castillo flushed, embarrassment, surprise and fear now cycling within him.  Glancing askance, he again checked Dr. Kerr's glare before addressing Troi again.  "What do you mean?"

    "We had been told by an adversary about the results of a losing battle," Troi answered.  "She didn't go into many details, but she did reveal that there were survivors and that someone, someone we knew, gave herself to save the rest from execution.  That adversary was the product of that deal."

    "If you have all the answers," Dr. Kerr suddenly asked, "then why are you dredging it up with us?"

    "I'd like to hear it from you, to confirm it."

    "Then why don't you _ask the question_?"

    Troi paused.  But then she felt that Dr. Kerr's irritation was not directed at her, but at the knowledge the two had wanted not to discuss.  So, with another heavy dose of deliberate calm, Troi asked, "Do you know about whom I'm speaking?"

    "The product?  You're referring to Sela," Dr. Kerr flatly replied, "so-called commander and liaison for the Tal Shiar."

    Though she had the verification she wanted, Troi furrowed her brow at the rest.  "You know about Commander Sela?"

    "I do, and her files have crossed my desk."

    "Then you know about her missions and her meetings with us?"

    "Her geography and culture were what I was required to disseminate--though I was well aware of what she had been put up to and the resulting mess.  But that wasn't for me to confirm or disprove, nor was the mission that brought it or the many she plagued.  That's for Command and the tools in Temporal Investigations.  --And we'll want to keep my bit of this off their desk, too, if you don't mind.  I don't need _them_ meddling in my affairs, particularly, after twenty years avoiding that particular curse.”  Dr. Kerr crossed her arms and gave Troi a stare.  "So what'd that little demon blow out of her nose this time?"

    "This time?  But you said you--"

    "I'm not recalling my work, now," Dr. Kerr cut in.

    Troi thought about that for a moment.  "You've met her."

    "Aye.  What did she tell you?"

    "That her mother was a former crewperson of ours, Natasha Yar, who agreed to become consort to one of the commanding generals to spare the survivors of her ship from execution."

    Now Troi stared at them in turns, feeling their reaction to the mention of Yar's name, a stir of emotions that was now so strong and so fast--love, hatred, devotion, pain, relief, longing, security, despair--Troi could only guess at each owner.  However, their surprise was gone now, and they understood everything once Sela's words had been confirmed. 

    "Aye," breathed the other woman at last.

    "We never learned how Tasha ended up among that crew," Troi went on, "but we did receive confirmation of its truth from a reliable source, so we had little cause to doubt her."

    "Who on this ship could have been a reliable source," Castillo asked, "if they'd been affected with the rest of you?"

    "Down the corridor and to the right," Dr. Kerr said then clarified, "The bartender's a wee more aware of the universe at large than is at once apparent."

    Troi's lips turned up.  "You've learned this yourself?"

    "I likewise had a reliable source," Dr. Kerr drily rejoined.  "So Sela told you about her biological parentage.  Just that?"

    "She also told us Tasha was later executed while trying to escape with her when she was four years old."

    "Rubbish!”  Dr. Kerr nearly jumped up at the accusation, but settled on glaring at Troi.  "Would she ever have been so stupid to endanger us all, she surely wouldn't have taken the brat with her!"

    "No?  Well, perhaps it makes sense, but I can't see her leaving her child there."

    "It wasn't _her_ child.”  Dr. Kerr shook her head, pulling a long breath through her nostrils.  At last, Troi felt the professor's despair bubble over.  "Oh, indeed, Sela's turned out to be a fine Romulan of the New Order, well set in the extended value of nepotism!  Her mother did what she could, but the Tal Shiar made the fine finishing school, as ever they were!”  Mr. Castillo gave her a look, but Dr. Kerr returned the stare askance.  "You look at me like that because it's the truth?”  Her attention shot back to Troi.  "Sela was born _Romulan_ , and by a Romulan mother she was raised.  I don't know what else she led you to believe, but Sela knew the woman who carried and bore her for but a few days when she was nearly five, and that was all."

    It was Troi's turn to be surprised.

    "This was that woman," Mr. Castillo added, breaking the standoff.  Unfolding the yellow PADD, he activated it, scrolled for a moment and gave it to Troi.  "But it won't help anything.  It might just make things worse."

    Taking the PADD and looking down, Troi felt her blood wash cold.  Mr. Castillo was right.

    The woman in the picture was _not_ Natasha Yar.  Her features were remarkably similar--and doubly haunting.  Her posture was elegant, her skin was flawless, and her small mouth was set in the tiniest smile.  Or was she smiling at all?  Her eyes betrayed nothing.  Lined in brown and drawn out stylishly at the ends, her gaze seemed to burn through the imager to an undiscovered point within its aim.  Her silken gown, jewel red, fit perfectly around her slender frame.  A jeweled scarab pinned a curl of her shoulder-length hair, while wide loops of gold and ruby tulium were pinned about her hair; long streams of the same precious metal fell long down her back and were draped over her handsomely complimented bosom.  She was a fair-featured image of an age gone by on Romulus, while still the epitome of a fashionable and expensive woman in any day. 

    A thousand emotions seemed to be possible in the woman's liquid expression, rendering it ultimately neutral...and yet hypnotic.  Troi could hardly tear her gaze from it.

    "Who was she?" she breathed.

    "Didn't you just say it?" Mr. Castillo asked.

    "Though certainly more decorated, she does look like Tasha," Troi admitted.  "She died--"

    "Almost seven years ago," Dr. Kerr finished.

    Troi's gaze snapped to meet the older woman's.  "Yes."

    Mr. Castillo sighed.  "There were equal parts of truth, omission and error in Sela's taunting you.  Really, Commander, that's all she was doing."

    "We assumed she wanted to disarm us," Troi agreed.

    "Be certain of it," Dr. Kerr added, "but don't ever assume she shed a tear for her father's havaln--whose name not one of them could even guess at until shortly before your Yar died.  And even then, they could confirm nothing, only make workable hypotheses."

    Troi wanted to be surprised again, but then, that too made sense.  "No, she wouldn't have revealed her identity, would she?"

    Mr. Castillo coughed an ironic laugh.  "God, I don't want to imagine what would have happened if they'd found out what she was from."

    "Her tactical knowledge," Dr. Kerr said, "twenty years advanced, earned during a war against the Klingon Empire?  It'd have devastated the Federation and the Klingon Empire alike, and this timeline would have become as vicious as the one she had forsaken."

    Troi shook her head, understanding what had been and what had not been, all that Mr. Castillo had implied before and what she knew now....  Again, she glanced down at the image, the woman's gaze, filled with all she held behind her eyes and in her heart.  Troi's own heart fluttered to absorb it all.  "I can't imagine what it was like for her."

    "Good to hear you admit to it," Dr. Kerr returned.  "Your Yar was recognized by a Romulan agent who had fifteen years beforehand met a woman of striking similarity.  Unfortunately, the general wasn't the only one to be gifted with that information.  They held onto it until they had some use for it."

    Mr. Castillo nodded solemnly.  "Sela sure used what she found out to her benefit."

    "Her superiors did," Dr. Kerr corrected him, "namely Meshunat and General Pelar.  She's on their track, not her own.”  Her frown pursed.  "I never once thought I'd feel sorry for her, but I do."

    Troi was surprised, for indeed, beneath her dislike there was genuine concern.  "Why is that?"

    "Well, because she's all but a child.  And even were she a prodigy--which she's not--in no manner is the _most_ privileged on Romulus presented with the rank of commander when they're but twenty-few.  The Tal Shiar made that happen against anything her parents would've wanted, once Sela was left without enough to protect her.  They'll continue to use her as they see fit, and they'll dispose of her when they've finished, likely reduce her to tevol'oc and sell her to one of their landed minions. It's not beneath them to keep her alive in disgrace, I assure you.  Much as she'd like to think otherwise, Meilor doesn't have the influence to free her daughter, and Kiropol needs to think about the rest of the family before risking everything to save his cousin, who has always been more a liability than a benefit.  He's got to be patient and wait out their enemy's revenge against the general who had hunted them for over fifty years."

    "Yeah," Mr. Castillo said, nodding.  "Sounds about right.  Some work they did on her, too."

    "Brought tears to my eyes," Dr. Kerr whispered, her eyes turning down to her clenched hands.  "How mortified Havaln would have been to know the child had been taken by forces not unlike those she had escaped in her youth.  But such is the New Order and the Tal Shiar brought to power.  They care for nothing but their objective, no matter what they profess about the benefit to the Empire and their people."

    "Sela was cross-referenced in a file we were given access to," Mr. Castillo told Troi.  "Dacey hadn't seen any images until we came out here."

    "I'm a linguistic and cultural analyst," she quietly reminded him, still recovering from the memory.  "I inspect the image files only as needed--and often I avoid them.  It helps to not see the baggage--and that particular baggage would have set me back a week.  I'm happy to have had some restraint, there."

    "Which itself still kind of amazes me, Dacey," Mr. Castillo grinned.

    "I'd like to be insulted; however, ignorance excuses you as well as ever."

    "Maybe so," he conceded with a chuckle.

    Looking at Troi, Dr. Kerr at last clarified, "Sela is green-blooded, Commander.  She'd not have been borne and certainly not accepted in Meilor's particular society were that not possible to ensure.  It's physically impossible for her to look like the woman you met without a battery of alterations."

    Troi could not hide her concern that time.  Their shards of information, finally given some release, began to fit into the holes left by Sela, correcting some, erasing others.  Large gaps yet remained glaringly untouched, taunting her for completion.  At last, she drew a deep breath and leaned back in her chair.  Then she said, "I think you need to tell me what happened, now."

    "I don't need to tell you anything," Dr. Kerr responded, the chill returning to her tone.  "You've got the answer to your question; you know the what and why behind whatever bothered you about us.  So then, let it go.  Let her lie in peace, as she'd wanted."

    "She does deserve to rest in peace," Troi agreed.  "And yet, you know I can't leave here with just that much."

    "Impossible.  I cannot leave Earth without the impossible knocking on the door--or being let right in.”  She shook her head.  "I should never have been tempted to attend the conference."

    "You can't say that, Dacey," Mr. Castillo told her.  "You couldn't have known about how things were going to pan out, and there's been no harm done."

    "Yet.”  She stared at Troi once more, still and hard.  "I depend only on the shard of hope that you're an honorable woman, Commander, and will stand by your word."

    "How can I assure you more than with that?" Troi asked her.

    "You can't," Dr. Kerr stated.  "You knew Natasha Yar for a time and apparently cared about her enough to know to bring your suspicions back today.  You're a counselor and must swear to your patients' privacy, and I've got no reason to doubt you uphold that.  However, you're a Starfleet officer, too, which tells me you've got another faith to pray to, and we're not your patients.  So again, you are held by nothing but what you choose to honor, and I don't know you.”  She shook her head and turned her attention away.  "It's not my call, lass."

    Troi looked at Mr. Castillo.  "Is it yours?"

    "Not really," he said, his posture falling a little.  Holding Troi's dark, unblinking gaze for a few moments, he once more looked at Dr. Kerr.  "We've come this far, Dacey, and I think we can trust her with the rest.  It can't hurt more if it's kept in the room."

    Dr. Kerr rolled her eyes and flicked on her PADD.  "Not if our luck on this fine barge has gone unchanged," she replied.  Again, her mood darkened, but she held back the effect of it well enough to add with an air of dispassion, "You're free to suit yourself, sir, as ever.”  Then she went back to her reading, a silent dismissal, though with sufficient curiosity about the proceedings that she remained in her seat.

    He turned back to Troi with a shrug, not arguing with his companion nor asking any more of her attention.  Suddenly, his age grew on him again, brown and creased, at rest in the plush chair, one leg crossed over the other.  His deep green cardigan suddenly looked bigger than the rest of him, a plush covering for a pensive man in his mid-sixties.  Though, the slightest spark had lit in his eye when those memories welled behind his otherwise fallen face.  "So," he said quietly, "you want me to talk about Tasha."

    Troi smiled, feeling the warmth that came with the name.  "I would like to hear about her.  I'd like to know how she ended up returning with you and your experience with her on Romulus.  She wasn't with us very long, but Tasha was dear to us.  Despite her end with you, it would mean a lot to know about what happened to the woman you knew."

    "The woman I knew...”  Mr. Castillo paused.  His heavy mouth seemed to fight to turn up, even while it wanted to.  "The woman I knew.  God, where to start?  I only knew her for a couple of days on her ship, after our Enterprise fell into the rift and her ship came to our aid.  Those couple of days were all I needed to impress me for the rest of my life.  The rest of my life...  To this day, I can see her there, relentlessly on task--all business and brass with hell stuck to her heels.  But at the same time she was...innocent in a way, sweet.”  He at last managed that smile when Troi laughed a little.  "She was, wasn't she?"

    "Yes, she was,” Troi acknowledged, feeling a sort of odd gratification to know Tasha's particular charm had gone unaltered.  "It's good to remember her.  She was memorable without ever meaning to be."

    Mr. Castillo nodded.  "Endearing was my word, yeah--so easy to like, though she didn't try for that, either.  When we found out about the reality shift and knew the proper timeline was so different, I couldn't help but wonder what a peaceful time would have made of her, how different she would have been."

    "How did she end up on your ship?"

    "You know, I hadn't completely understood why she'd decided to come aboard--misunderstood, actually.  I mean, I knew it had something to do with what happened to her here.  Sometime during those couple of days, she found out that she'd died here.  She also knew we needed a lot of help to fight the Romulans well.  So, she made up her mind and asked for a transfer from her captain--yeah, Captain Picard.  Then she transported aboard, planted herself on the bridge and requested permission to take over tactical. --Some request!" He chuckled. "I didn't like it and I said so, but she didn't listen to any of that. She knew she was right, and to hell with any objections I could've thought up."

    "Your captain accepted her?"

    "Captain Garrett was dead by then--killed in a skirmish before we could get back."

    Troi showed her surprise even as she voiced her sympathies.

    "Thanks.  She was a fantastic captain I served with great pride.  The only part of our silence I haven't liked was for not being able to show her due respect, because we all admired the hell out of her.  But Captain Garrett would have been the first to understand the silence, and if she'd been there, she'd have let Tasha come.  Yeah...she would have.”  He turned his gaze toward the flickering viewport, which still displayed the Enterprise's path through the blue-shifted blanket of dark matter, and he was lost there for a moment.  But then a fond, warm grin grew upon his lips.  "Not that it would have mattered.  No way anyone could tell Tasha what to do at that point, so I welcomed her aboard, and she rode back through the rift with us and fought like hellfire at Armageddon.  She was dead already, with nothing left behind her and damned and determined to go out on her terms.” 

    The memories surfacing, he paused.  His eyes seemed to follow all he saw that fateful day, on that bridge amidst acrid billows of steam and stifling smoke, pained hands punching flickering panels, shouts for power and torpedoes and grunts of oncoming death.  Troi was all but there with him for the power of his recollection. And yet, the warmth and admiration he'd felt before did not fade. It hung there amid the screams and chaos, a glimmer of useless, desperate hope....

    "God," he breathed, "she was... _amazing_."

* * *

__  
Coming Next:  Chapter Two.  Defeat  
© D'Alaire M., 2011  
swiftian@yahoo.com  



	2. Defeat

   "Hull breach, decks ten, eight, six!  --Oh God, five through three...  Two--!"

   "Shut up and draw the power from the decks!  Divert everything you can to tactical!"

   "Lieutenant!  I have Ensign--"

   "Main power is failing!"

   "She's injured!"

   "Stow her!  We're going down--now!"

   "The lead ship's coming around to engage again!"

   "I can't pull her anymore!"

   "Then don't!  --Tasha, we don't have anything left!"

   "Ram them!"

   "We'll bounce off their shields!"

   "Do it anyway!  Ram them head on!"

   "You're going to get us killed!"

   "That's what we're here for!"

   "What?!"

   "We have to take it to the end, Yang!  --Tasha!  The lead ship!"

   "Diverting all tactical to navigation!  Make them take us down!  Make it look good!  -- _Now_ , Richard!"

   "Full impulse!"

   They barely made that, but they took the warbird a little by surprise for what it was worth. It jerked around to try to face its foe's new direction.

   "Shutting down main engines and redirecting--" Tasha cut off, working quickly and squeezing one last phaser blast out of the banks.  It tore into the warbird's shields the instant they hit them, allowing them another direct hit.

   "Full impact!" Castillo yelled, grabbing his station, damned if he would go out any other way.

   "Containment failure!" Ensign Yang announced.  "Get ready!"

   "It's an honor to die with you!" Castillo called out, closing his eyes and preparing for the explosion that would end them all in one more...

   ...moment.

   Another moment.

   Sparks sizzled and cracked all around them, and the groans of compromised decks and faded Klaxons echoed relentlessly.  And then they whined and powered down.

   Another moment passed...with nothing.

   "What the hell?" Castillo demanded, looking around at his remaining crew.  Just them, those few, haggard and pale, gazing at empty screens, shellshocked and equally confused.

   Tasha seemed to know what it was well before the rest of them could imagine it.  Her gaze darting wildly around the smoking, darkened bridge for a moment, she jumped down from the tactical station and grabbed a dead crewperson's hairband.  Mussing her slicked back hair, she pushed it back again with the band then opened her tunic.  She tossed her tunic and turtleneck onto the face of the corpse, leaving a yellow, short-sleeved undershirt; then she folded down her trouser waist seam and pulled out her shirt so that it lay casually on her hips.  Thinking for a second, then visibly rueing her decision, she kicked off her boots and detached her leg straps for the pile.  "What was her name?" she asked Castillo as she worked.

   "What?"

   "Her name," Tasha repeated.  "What was her name and where is she from?"

   Castillo at once impressed with and shocked by her quick thinking.  "Lisa Teralli. I think she was from Cavos-Five."

   "Silva-three," Lieutenant Adamson coughed, trying futilely to pull himself up from the foot of his blackened station.  Yang's strong arm finally found him and grabbed his hand to help him out.  "Are...are we alive?"

   "Looks like it," Castillo answered him, still registering it himself--just registering the _silence_ , save the small fires and shorts around them, and the labored breathing of those still alive.

   As that registered, he realized that they were surrounded by bodies.  Focusing slowly in the dull, smoky emergency lighting, he let out a gasp of regret.  Massey, Valoan, Jackson, Fredericks….  Others from below decks had scrambled up in mid-attack, desperate to escape the worsening devastation only to die a few minutes later in the same explosions that'd killed the others; they had been thrown violently or electrocuted, or both.  His heart panged to think about it.  The crew all knew what was going on when they came back through the rift; they all had known their mission.  But survival was an instinct, and they had tried for it.  They had tried.  Their last moments had to be…

    _How in the hell did_ we _make it?_ he asked himself, numb but hot, fatigued but alert.  The adrenaline was still coursing through him but starting to trickle away in the aftermath.  Coughing, he stepped over one wretched form when he saw a curly blond head move a little.  "Ensign?  Ferro?"  Taking her by the shoulder, he rolled her gently over.  The science officer gasped a breath and so he kneeled to support her bloody head.  Offering a hasty grin when her eyes flew open, he told the others, "See if anyone else is alive!"

   "Dacey's injured," reported Lieutenant Mika at the rear of the bridge.

   "Novak's gone," Adamson coughed, turning a circle in the littered lower bridge.  "God...they're _all_ gone..."

   "We expected to be, too," Castillo grimly reminded him, reminding them all in turn. 

   "What do you mean?" asked Ferro in a quavering whisper.  Her eyes darted around and she reached to sit and see around her.  "What happened?  Where are we?"

   "I mean we're alive, and we're still at Narendra.  The battle's over and...well, I guess we'll see what's next soon."  Giving her a tug, he got her up then helped her stagger to a seat.  "Stay here."  Hearing a flurry of tapping still going on behind him, he turned and saw Tasha still furiously at work on the last surviving console.  "There anything left?"

   "Not much, but I'm using it."  Tasha 's eyes remained on the board.  Flickers of red and blue reflected off her steam-streaked face.  "I deleted the personnel files and all of the ship's logs before we passed through the rift, and I just erased the ship's tactical data...science data, too," she went on, loudly enough for them all to hear.  "I'm a guest."  She looked at Yang.  "Which was the last Starbase you visited--and how long before the battle?"

   "Starbase 157," he answered her.  "We were there, what?  --Yeah, fifteen days before we got to Narendra."

   "I'm a guest who came aboard at Starbase 157," she clarified.  "I was looking for work and was offered transport.  That's all you know about me--and _only_ if they ask you directly."  Finally, her face like stone, she glanced down at her uniform top and tapped yet another command into the computer.  Her items disappeared a second later with Ensign Teralli.  "Probably better this way," she said softly and resumed her double checks.

   "Good thinking," Castillo told her, though paled to see his crewmate go like that.

   "Where I grew up," she told him, "evidence could be your worst enemy.  I would dump the main computer, but that would take too long."

   Castillo watched her continue to do what she could as row after row of systems shut down.  Her expression was hard but her eyes were bright.  She was working totally on automation at that point with every joule of power left, and she probably hadn't even registered that they had survived when none of them had expected to.  She was still doing what she had come there to do.

   If he'd lost his wits, too, he'd have sworn his love for her then and there.

   And he wondered suddenly what would become of her now, if they'd succeeded, and what they _all_ should do now, were it possible to do anything at all.  He'd been in the ranks for fifteen years, starting at petty officer and working his way steadily up from there, through officer training eight years ago.  Two years later, he had achieved the rank of lieutenant and a place on that venerable ship under the strong and steady hand of Captain Garrett.  He was a good officer from the start; she made him doubly so.  Yet there was no preparation for the kind of defeat they now faced.

    _Now what?_ he mused, staring at all those dirty, dazed faces as another sizzle zipped through another system, extinguishing the last flickers in Yang’s console.  He'd accepted his ultimate responsibility before, to take what was left of his ship and crew over the brink, to save history--their few lives for the billions that could be lost.

   But the brink never came--or actually, it'd just not happened.

   Tasha finally wiped the console board with the headband she'd taken then stepped away from the tactical station.  Moving around Mika and Dacey, she pushed the headband back over her hair and glanced at them.  "She'll need to be carried," she said quietly.

   "She passed out from the pain," Lieutenant Mika told her.  The Trill's eyes turned down to the young woman at her knees.  "Her arm is broken, but I don't think there's a head injury.  I was there when she was thrown."

   "Tell him to take her if we need to move," Tasha said, gesturing to Adamson, who was helping Yang to heave a bulkhead off Ensign Sharesh's midsection.

   "We might be able to revive her."

   "We'll see what the better option is in a minute," Tasha replied.  "I hid that transport inside of the Romulans' transporter activity.  If they don’t scuttle the ship, they'll be here soon."

   Castillo's gut twisted.  She sounded like she was merely mentioning a crewman's location, not announcing the enemy's invasion.  In fact, she hardly sounded affected by their predicament, impressing him anew with the strength of her nerve.  "Where'd they come in?"

   "Deck six--the supply docks.  They repressurized the section, so they obviously want to learn what they can.  The warp core was probably ejected.  There's no way to know for certain, but it would be the smart thing to do, considering we were losing containment."

   "If we were losing containment," Castillo agreed, "the ship would have been destroyed if they hadn’t taken care of it."

   "So what's next?  What do we do now?" Yang wanted to know.

   Castillo flicked a grin Tasha's way then looked again at the ensign.  "We wait."

   With that, Tasha settled herself into the back corner of the bridge by Mika, just a soot-smeared guest with mussed hair pulled hastily back in a black headband who just happened to get herself to deck one in time to survive the explosions and impacts.  Whatever the Romulans did from there on, she was in place and ready.

   At last, as the sounds began to die around them, the sparks burnt out and the last of the systems faded into oblivion, it occurred to Castillo that he had no idea what Romulans actually did with their prisoners....

* * *

  


   Mr. Castillo paused, drawing a deep breath with some difficulty--not for health, Troi could tell, but the weight of what he knew came next.  The root of what she had felt in him lay there like an untapped aquifer.  His gaze seemed to skim over its vastness, dreamily contemplating its far border, before it turned down again.

   "We found out what 'next' was a minute later," he said quietly.

   He didn't look at Troi again, or at Dr. Kerr, though he could feel both women's eyes on him.  Rather, his attention found its way back to the image Troi still held in her hand, everpresent, stranded in time, stranded in his memory.

   "It was the last time I saw Tasha."

* * *

  


   "They should be taken as slaves and used for barter with their kind if needed."

   "That would serve us poorly."

   "An opportunity might be wasted in disposing of them too quickly."

   "We would waste an opportunity for advancement by holding them, useless and a constant threat of deceit."  Turning a look of consideration toward the group at the center of the expansive bay, the most decorated among them flicked a brow and said, "Execution remains the best option.  Their torment will bring us the greatest recognition; all will see what fails before us as they whither and submit."

   A murmur of agreement rolled around a few other officers.

   Castillo hated the Romulan officer the moment he strode through and shot them a caustic sneer, but he detested him more for causing the gasp of remorse from Mika as they came to their decision.  A fantastic department chief and a natural mentor to a long line of young officers, even she couldn't keep it locked down when their fates were decided--and in such a way to cause them even more pain, not five meters away, near the center of the cold, empty bay.

   "Bastards," he cursed under his breath.  "They sure are having a good time."

   "No, they're not," said Tasha quietly.  "We mean nothing to them.  We're objects."

   "We are Federation citizens and have rights!" Adamson shot back in a proud whisper. 

   She didn't return his attention, but kept her eyes on the Romulans.  "Not here, we don't."

   "You just accept that?" Ferro asked, more with horror than doubt of the other woman's observation.  Her pretty, once cheerful face was still ashen with shock as she looked up from where she and Parker knelt by Sharesh, who lay unconscious still while Innivra examined his wound.  "We can't just let them kill us," she said, her clear soprano still scratched with smoke and stress.  "There has to be something we can do--there's got to be a deal that can be made."  She implored Castillo with a stare then looked at _the guest_ again.  "We have to be worth something to them."

   Tasha was beyond softening the blow.  "I grew up having to accept where I stood no matter what I had to stand on," she said, her eyes dimming slightly before she added, "This is where you stand now.  You did everything you thought was the right thing; now we have to wait and accept what they give us.  I see no other option.  If we're worthless to them, you can die knowing that you were beyond worth to countless others."

   "You almost sound like you _want_ to die," Ferro breathed in disbelief.

   "I'm not afraid to die," she corrected her.  "And I won't sacrifice my dignity to them.  Neither should you."

   Her gaze met Ferro's for a moment as she finished, but then she snapped back to her point of study.  Castillo in turn studied Tasha.  As always, her stare missed nothing, figuring them out, or maybe just getting all the information she needed to understand the means of their destruction.  She'd come there to die with them, and now would, after all...

   "The three left crawling should be treated before the trial can commence," said one of the officers, hardly casting a glance their way.

   "Will they be tried and tortured together," asked another, "or will we all have the opportunity to benefit from our labors?"

   "The greater number at the capital, broadcast properly, should be enough to show all the Empire our honorable service."

   "We will achieve full credit for conquering the offenders who tried to quash our mission by publicly crushing the lives of those enemies."

   "If that," boomed another officer as he strode in, uniform coat snapping in his gait as he crossed the room and stopped between the others.  His short hair was as black as his cloth, save the grey tinges at his temples, which likewise matched the mail-like yoke sewn into the coat's collar and over one shoulder.  The whole of his array shamed the greys and reds of the other officers, as did his intricate crimson and gold insignia.  The commanders silently acknowledged it, too, as they moved aside to give him respectful space.  "I have returned from the Shivon.  The captured hull is secure.  Narendra has been defeated utterly, and enough of the enemy have been spared to tell the story." 

   "Our successes will be celebrated!" said one of the commanders.

   " _My_ successes will be _acknowledged_.  You will simply be honored as excellent support to the campaign I was ordered to take on in lieu of Attorrak's...dysfunction." 

   "Of course, General."  The commander who had previously sentenced them gave the other man a hard look.  "But you _will_ share this credit."

   "Do you challenge me, Commander Rovrek?"

   Rovrek's frown sparked with the challenge, but he visibly thought better of it.  "I would never insult your place, General.  I was stating a certainty, not a question."

   "A wise decision, to lie, if but you hold to that lie."  He glanced askance.  "What of those?  What have you discussed?"

   "We believe, General Tokarel," said the man beside Rovrek, "that a public execution in the capital will be the best form of honoring our valor and service to the Empire."

   Tokarel glanced at the others.  "Tannok, Acara, you disagree."

   The latter Romulan raised her chin.  "There would be more worth in enslaving them, committing them to labor and using them for tactical purposes as needed."

   Tokarel paused, considering her statement with a raised brow and a slow breath.  "Which would require my intervention, I suspect?"

   "You have the resources, General."

   "They would be wasted in a state of languishing!" insisted Commander Rovrek.  "There is hardly any honor to be gained by keeping them fattened and caged."

   "They would be expensive and deceitful," agreed another.

   Tokarel nodded.  "They would and very well can be expected to revolt without incentive to remain dutiful."  He paused, eyeing each officer in the room anew.  Thoughtfully, he added, "I will choose what would indeed best serve the Empire, and not what serves our personal honor, convenience or immediate use."

   Tasha blinked to hear it.  "We might have an option, after all."

   Castillo furrowed his brow.  He had no doubt that the general was a brutal and efficient warrior--he had run the operation to invade Klingon territory and attack the colony, and he had prevented the Enterprise from interfering.  But he might be a thinker, too, so maybe Tasha was right.  "Okay, but whatever happens, I should be the one to do the talking.  This is the guy who tore us apart then let us live long enough to watch this show."

   "Any of them would have," she noted.  "But he let us live this long, so that they could debate what to do."

   "Yeah, but they're not in charge, and you're in no position to bargain for anything.  Let me handle this one, Tasha."

   At that, General Tokarel looked at them.  --More correctly, he looked over and locked his gaze on the woman Castillo had addressed.  His dark eyes flickered with recognition.

   Tasha met and held his stare; her lips parted then pressed together again.

   Castillo looked between them, wondering what he'd missed.

   She showed no surprise when the general tilted his head slightly then moved his comrades off another few paces.  He spoke very softly now, softly enough that the translators couldn't make out his words at all; a couple of the commanders were bothered enough to look displeased.  He spoke again, seemingly offhand, softening their facades--shaming them, even.  No doubt, the general was running that show.  Finished with the commanders, he reclaimed Tasha's unbroken examination.

   She drew a deep, slow breath and took a step away from Castillo.  "I'll need to be the one to talk," she told him.  When he drew a breath of protest, her eyes pinned to him with such a force, he felt his gut turn.  She almost looked wild, haunted, while entirely in control of every fiber of her will.  "Don't say anything.  Trust me."

   "I trust you, but I don't understand--"

   "Just give me a minute," she told him as if the matter had long been concluded.  At the same time, her rigid posture spoke of her tension, the moment before fight or flight, run or resolve.

   For the first time, despite all he had seen in her over the past few days, he understood that she was without exception a warrior.  And it made sense, considering what reality she had come from and what she had been able to do on his bridge.  Beaten and exhausted, Tasha had continued to work until she could do no more--dumping as much of the main computer as she could, then locking out as many other systems as she could get access to, making herself over as a guest and discarding of the identity she would use if needed, all within a couple of minutes.  Moving away at last, she had positioned herself behind Mika and Dacey and labeled herself a guest when they reappeared on the Romulan ship.  When the Romulans rounded them up, she had projected an unassuming position and maintained it until Commander Acara chose her and Castillo to stand for the others.  When their judgment came down, they would be the ones to accept their sentence.

   Throughout the experience, nothing had surprised her.  Maybe after years at war, she had seen it all, or had been trained to handle captive situations more finely than the basic services Castillo and his crew had been served.  Now he knew, too, that she understood the general's thinking.  She _wanted_ to be the one to deal with him because of that understanding.

   Still, he found himself cautious for her.  "Tasha, be careful.  Don't agree to anything out of hand."

   "Let me take care of it."  She turned her stare askance at the Romulan.  "I've had to deal with the devil before."

   He didn't have time to ask what she meant.

   The general began a gradual stride her way, excusing himself from his comrades.  His expression turning curious, he seemed to have no care for anyone else in the room as he neared the object of his attention.  For her part, Tasha took another step away from Castillo.  She showed no pleasantness, and she did not move another muscle until he was before her.

   "May we speak?" asked the general with a mannerly air.  His superior height and posture denoted any arrogance as long accepted and perhaps deserved, and yet his voice remained very quiet.  "Privately, and without disturbance?"  He gestured toward a bulkhead bench near the bay doors.

   Richard frowned and almost spoke, but that time, Tasha stepped in front of him before he could produce a sound.  She said nothing, too, but nodded and walked with the general to the bench, leaving Castillo to feel his anger rise.  She'd stepped in front of him, knowing he would try to assume his rightful position and essentially forbidding him to.  It was the third time that terrible day that she'd pushed aside his concerns and taken charge.  Did she think he was unable to handle a ship, his crew or that situation?  Did she assume that because of where she was from, she could make those decisions?

   But he knew what it really was:  He wanted to be the one making those decisions and her as far away from them as possible, despite everything he knew about where she was from and everything he knew she was capable of.  And he knew he was an idiot for it.  She was handling the situation.  He should be grateful that someone-- _any_ one of them--could.

   The situation.  Dealing with the devil.  She went into it with the same calm certainty as she had everything else since he'd met her. 

   Allowing her to sit first, the general flicked his hand at a waiting officer and lowered himself a full arm's reach away.  Then placed his hand upon his knee and began their conversation.  His voice was inaudible now as he spoke to her.  Only the slight hum of his timbre was evidence of his participation in the conversation. 

   Instead, Castillo watched Tasha, though her face showed little but her seriousness.  Rather, it was all in her eyes: a slight widening and a turn askance, the flick of a brow as she said something else, equally muted, and then meeting the general's stare with the same intensity she had shown Castillo before, absorbing the Romulan's words in full when he spoke again.

   To this, Tasha responded, it seemed, without much change in her demeanor.  The general rebounded readily, his posture unchanged throughout the discussion.

   "I don't know them," he finally heard her answer, and to the general's next comment she added, "I was a guest."

   If she connected her story to Starbase 157 and said nothing more, it would be a good enough cover.  Contract seekers were plentiful on the starbases, particularly on that side of Federation space, where mining, cargo preparation and small ship security and technical support positions were equally numerous.  Even a thorough investigation of her embarking would produce little more than a "likely."  Interestingly, she didn't speak a name that he could hear.  Castillo kicked himself inside for having voiced it in that room, nixing the alias she had probably already come up with.

   The general questioned again; Tasha answered again.  Their words became quieter and another sort of intensity grew into her features as the general leaned toward her, seemingly conciliatory in his approach that time.  Her next audible response was terse.  "I do as I say I will.  When I make a promise, I keep it.  Otherwise, I say nothing."

   The statement interested Tokarel, enough so that he broke into a clever smile and bowed his chin appreciatively.  Again, he spoke, and then she calmed, nodding back at him.

   "I'm not offended," she said.  "I just want you to understand me."

   That time, Castillo felt his pulse jump, and he found himself speaking even before he'd thought to.  "What's going on?"

   "I'm taking care of this," she insisted, telling him twice over not to interfere with her stare.  Despite her determination, he could see her shoulders stiffen when she turned back to the general.  "Will you give your word that the crew will be unharmed and treated well?"

   The general rose to his feet.  "By my honor," he stated, finally raising his voice just enough for the others to hear, "the Federation crew shall be treated well and marked for barter with their own, and I will remain true to this oath as faithfully as you do to yours."

   "Then I give my word, too," Tasha told him, holding onto the Romulan's stare with the same iron determination that she'd held on the Enterprise's bridge when she rammed the general's ship.  "We have an agreement."

   "Excellent."  He gestured to the guard waiting by the bay doors.  "Send for the staff attendant, her aide and Physician."

   "I obey you, General," responded the guard before he disappeared into the corridor.

   The general addressed Tasha again:  "I will find a suitable woman to assign to you.  There are many unranked serving aboard my ship, in my kitchens and personal quarters.  She will be found presently and sent into your employ."

   "May I speak with Lieutenant Castillo?" Tasha asked.  Castillo had itched to beat her to it before the general answered.

   "You may."

   While the general moved to address his commanders once again, Tasha stepped back over to Castillo, acknowledging the other crewpeople with a glance and a nod before looking at him.  "I'm being assigned to separate quarters," she informed him, quiet and quick before finally catching his gaze.  "You will all be taken care of, and no one will be hurt."

   At first relieved to hear those words--glad, too, to hear echoes of that relief behind him--Castillo then connected the dots and recalled the words "promise" and "agreement."  He scowled and bent close to her.  "What did you just do?"

   "I made a deal," she told him, darting a look at the others again.  "Your sentence is to work on the general's property until he can find a trade to get you back to Federation space.  Do what they tell you and keep the others in line until that can happen."

   "In exchange for what?" Castillo demanded, his racing heart to suspect the one thing she had to offer had indeed been offered--or, more properly, asked for and given.  "What did you give him?"

   "I think you already know.  But that's not important."

   "The hell it's--"

   "Look at them, Richard!" Tasha interjected in an insistent whisper.  She jerked her head toward his remaining crew, mostly young, curious, unsure, scared; three injured, all but Sharesh looking at them.  " _Look_ at them.  No training prepares them for anything like this.  Do you want to watch us all suffer and die before taking your turn?  I bought you all a _chance_.  If you don't want it for yourself, at least let me make the deal for them."

   Now his chest felt empty, sinking as his quickened breath died and the world around him collapsed.  Knowing what she was about to do to spare them, he forced himself to resist every urge to pull her into his arms and just keep her safe, to keep her with him.  "Tasha..."

   "I couldn't live with myself if I denied you this chance, when I already have nothing.  --No, it's true:  I have nothing to hold me--no family, no home, no life to claim; there is nowhere for me to go.  So I can make this deal in good conscience, knowing you and the others will be safe and have the chance of someday going home."

   Castillo's face continued to fade as she spoke, but hers remained bright and sure.  She was as serious as she had ever been:  Like the last time he had seen her on task, there was no way to turn her back once committed, and there was no way she could be wrong.  No question, Lieutenant Natasha Yar was the most fearless person he had ever known.  She acted as though she were dying tomorrow.  Even so...

   "But to agree to that...with _him_..."

   Her eyes turned down for a moment.  "It's not the first time I've had to make this kind of a deal," she admitted darkly.  "I'm not proud of it, but I'm not ashamed, either.  I do what I need to do to survive and protect the people I care about.  The only other option has no possible reversal, no way out.  What the general offered makes sense, so I accepted it.  Obviously, I'm not happy about this, either, but...it makes sense, and there is no other way."

   "Consort," came the soft voice of the general.

   Turning, she took a step away from Castillo then stopped again, looking at the two women who had entered the bay.  The commanders had transported away, and watching them now, the general showed no rancor, and an easy hand turned to gesture toward a Romulan woman.  A plain, drab green frock covered her from her neck to her shins, punctuated at the middle by a wide, matching belt.  A thin, matching hood hung from her tightly braided brown hair.  Wide loops perched below her ears like oversized earrings.  Her gaze flicked curiously over them all, but the rest of her expression remained impassive.

   "Aide will guide you."

   Tasha drew a slow breath then looked back at Castillo once more.  Bruised, dirty and stripped to a plain shirt and trousers, she could have been any survivor, and indeed, she needed to be.  But the look of determination she turned to him at that moment burned straight through him, and made him know in his heart and soul that she was anything but anyone else.  "I'm keeping you safe; you keep _them_ safe."

   He drew a hard breath and asked her one last time, "Tasha, are you sure?"

   Her lips turned up, seemingly amused but knowing better than to be.  "I can take care of myself, Richard.  I know what I'm doing."

   With that, she took the next step away--and then another, and then several more before she faced the Romulan woman.  Taking a deep breath, she gave the woman a quick nod of greeting.

   The Romulan gave her a short, solemn bow.

   With that, they moved to leave.  Castillo watched her, wondering if they would ever see each other again, worrying about her and the remaining crew, hating the general with every ounce of his being for knowing what he'd soon inflict upon the woman he'd so quickly come to care for, whose only crime in life was her incredible sense of duty.

   While she still appeared resolute, showing no satisfaction and little curiosity, the first touches of indecision appeared on Tasha face as she came to the portal.  But she only glanced at the crew once more, then at him in farewell, before turning again to her destination.  She disappeared in the corridor a few seconds later.

   Richard's eyes stayed on the exit long after she was gone.  The look she parted with, he knew, would remain with him for a lifetime.

   Now the general spoke to the attendant, a diminutive but able-looking Romulan woman, clothed likewise in olive with a long hood draped over her tightly braided hair.  But her hood was opaque, a part of a thin cloak, and a small, oblong PADD and several small chips hung from her belt.  "Secure appropriate quarters for these tevol'oc and bring them food, clothing and bedding; also, see to their hygienic needs.  The physician will treat the injured before they are transferred.  You will assist him." 

   "I obey you, General," said the woman instantly.

   The general's glare grew meaningful.  "These tevol'oc will not be harmed," at last loud enough for all in the room to hear, "nor spoken to but in direction.  Any rebellion will be handled with a stun and then brought immediately to my attention.  No guards will take liberties of any nature; no meal or respite will be withheld for any reason without my explicit approval.  Any deviation from my orders will be answered with a public flogging."

   "I obey you, General."

   The general looked at Castillo, then.  "This is Attendant.  She will see to your needs.  You will obey her."

   Pivoting, the general strode steadily toward the opposite exit, a long and lean figure in a crisp black uniform--their benefactor, now, he probably thought.

   Castillo jerked his head back to his surviving crew, who all were looking at him, relieved but exhausted, saddened and confused but alert enough to want to know what was next.  They all seemed to understand that they had just been spared a painful fate by a near stranger, who came from a place they had to forget ever existed.  Dacey, propped up against Mika, had revived again to watch the proceedings.  Only twenty-two, just starting out, her terror and pain had faded into morbid wonder.  Innivra and Parker, science officers not much older, looked excited to have a second chance and ready to go where they needed to go.  His muscular arms crossed on his ribs, Yang looked ready to get moving, too.  Sharesh was still unconscious, and his dark, round face like a child's in his blissful ignorance.  Adamson, nursing some burns, and Ferro, bearing what was likely a minor concussion, were experienced officers who seemed to understand what they must do now.  In fact, they all seemed to know what to do:  They looked to their senior officer for confirmation, guidance...and hope.

   Castillo's shoulders fell.

    _Damn her.  She's right.  She is absolutely right._

   Then he straightened, drawing a fresh breath and, through sheer will alone, managed some assurance that Tasha would continue to be right in that incredible wrong.

   "Do as they tell you," he ordered them.  "Everything will be okay."

   His head dipped and his eyes closed as soon as his crew all turned to the attendant.  Raising it again, he looked first at where Tasha had disappeared.  He felt like he'd sold his soul to accept that questionable means of survival.

* * *

  


   They stood in the bay with awkward silence--each, Castillo guessed, wondering if they should reveal anything about themselves and if things were going to happen as promised.  Thankfully, they did not have to wonder long.  Without ceremony, "Physician" strode in, opened a tricorder and began to examine each one of them with a heavy stare beneath his heavily creased brow.  He did not address them, but made comments to "Attendant" over his shoulder in a form of Romulan that did not translate.  Dutifully, she tapped on her PADD and responded quickly in the same tongue.

   After each of them had been given a turn, the doctor began to speak to them directly, his baritone translating into a series of curt orders.

   "This one--there--lie him flat," he said, pointing to Sharesh.  "This one's injuries require immediate treatment.  I will treat him first.  Those, move to his side.  They are next.  Then those."  His orders given, he moved to a panel near the opening of the room and inserted his scanner into a slot there.

   The attendant immediately set into helping them move the wounded into position.  "We will move the most injured man first," she said.  Her quick words had a soprano softness that both soothed and commanded them to listen.  Gently tapping Ferro's arm, she pointed to where she wanted her to go.  Dacey was led to go to her left.  To Ferro's right, she led Adamson into position.  "I am called Emidas," she told them as she led Parker around to the end.  "You may call me by my name when we are amongst one another, but among officers, you will call me Attendant, which is my position.  When we are finished with this triage, I will create your files for the database.  You:  You lead your block, yes?  Let us place your man in position now.  Physician is ready for him." 

   Castillo nodded and bent to ease Sharesh off Innivra's knees and onto the floor supine with Emidas' help.  "You will continue to attend to your comrade and assist Physician," she told Innivra, flicking a brief smile at his look of gratitude.  When she was satisfied with their proper placement, she pulled a PADD from a wide pocket on the hip of her tunic, powered it and began tapping its screen with strong, agile fingers.  Castillo asked nothing, knowing that without their personnel files, the Romulans had nothing to go on at that point but their race and appearance.

   After a minute, Emidas looked up from her PADD. 

   "They call you Castillo," she said.

   "Yes," Castillo replied, quickly preparing himself for what next to tell her and trusting--hoping--his crewmates would follow his lead.  While they all had been trained for captive and hostage situations, they would all have to be very careful not to hint at anything but their rescue mission--and never to volunteer anything about their "guest."

   Emidas proved him vain to think she cared about any of that.  "Your approximate age?"

   "Thirty seven."

   Her brow flicking to regard him again, she nodded without comment, tapped the information into her PADD then faced Mika, to Castillo's visible skepticism.  Glancing back at him, Emidas did all but shrug.  "Physician will gather your medical data, Castillo," she told him.  "That and your name are the only requirements.  Your abilities will be recorded when you are able to present them."

   To his right, a tricorder activated, and he looked to see the physician waving his tool over Sharesh's head.  Castillo could do nothing but watch.  Maybe they would simply dig into a database elsewhere with their last names and DNA records.  For the present, he did allow himself a moment of relief to see Sharesh revive with a start and Innivra's quick assurances and answers.  A few minutes later, Dacey was flexing her hand and grumbling.  Then Ferro's head wound was quickly treated; her color almost immediately returned, even if the look of shock remained.  Then they all were thoroughly re-examined and treated for minor scrapes and bruises.

   The physician entered some more data on his PADD, transfered it to Emidas' and left with as much fanfare as he had arrived.  The room all but vacated once again, they were left with an awkward silence, glancing at each other and back to Emidas, who, her job finished, offered nothing but a flat-handed gesture and one word:  "Wait."

   Several minutes later, the aide who had taken Tasha away breezed into the bay.  She bowed her head to Emidas, and she returned the gesture.  "This is Deviar, or Aide," she told them.  "She has brought essentials to your block's temporary quarters and will re-supply them daily or as needed.  You will follow her and obey her directives, as you will my own.  You will direct any requests to her; you will direct any questions to me."

   That communicated, their "block" at last left the bay.  Emidas led them down a long, dim corridor.  Deviar brought up the rear.  Periodically, they were required to stop and move aside for passing servicemen, several of whom took a moment to examine the prisoners before allowing them to continue.  Castillo forced himself to keep his gaze straight ahead.  Even as a freshman at the Academy, he'd never felt like a bug on glass.  The Romulans made no secret of their scrutiny, and many all but declared their distaste.

   All his life, he'd been well-liked and knew his talents.  He had enjoyed every benefit of his Federation upbringing and successful Starfleet career.

    _What the hell have I just let happen?_ he demanded silently when another officer paused before him.  Her dark, olive hand reached out and brushed lightly at Castillo's uniform arm, seemingly appraising the fabric.  Only a puff of recognition followed.  Castillo did not breathe nor blink until the woman had passed and Emidas started them off again.

    _What have I let happen to us?_

   Deep into the ship, it seemed, and down several levels of the warbird was the section Emidas called the service department.  There, they crossed a long, galley-style mess hall and into their quarters.  Deviar sealed the door behind them when they were all inside.  Castillo only needed a glance to see all he needed to know.  The Romulan form of a bunkroom was a circle of knee-high bunks with a latrine within a chamber on one end and a hallway on the other.  On each of their bunks, clothing, linens and personal necessities had been neatly stacked and labeled in Earth Standard.  The three women shared one side of the room.  There were no privacy walls.

   Emidas walked across to an arched doorway.  "Showers are there; they are shared between all the ship's unranked staff."

   "May I ask what ‘unranked staff’ means?" Mika said.  "Is that what we're considered here?"

   "It is a euphemism for the slave class," Emidas answered her.  "Your particular rank is that of tevol'oc, the slave acquired as a losing party in battle."

   " _Slave_ class?" Adamson asked, knitting his brow.  "We've been sold into slavery?"

   "Yes, in return for your lives, your _ranks_ , whatever they had been, have been dissolved and you are now considered in the eyes of the Romulan Star Empire battle-acquired slaves, purchased in trade and therefore owned by General Tokarel." 

   Castillo put his hand on Adamson's chest and gave them all a stern look in turn.  "We weren't sold, we were bartered for.  We were allowed to live in return for someone brave enough to sacrifice herself for people she didn't even know.  --And don't forget it."

   Adamson backed off.

   Moving closer to them, Emidas confided, "And that General Tokarel was in command of this mission and thus was able to arrange your contracts was most fortunate.  Commander Rovrek would gladly have publicly filleted and eaten you still screaming."

   Mika shuddered.

   "Duly noted," Castillo said replied, likewise chilled.  Rovrek indeed had eyed them in such a way that made Emidas' statement believable.  Not that it mattered to him.  He was beyond feeling scared by the very possible threats to his life there.  It had been a couple of hours by then.  He wondered where Tasha was on the ship--and where the general was.  But he shook his head and reminded himself that there were eight others to worry about, plus himself.

   "You will clean yourselves and dress, Emidas told them.  "You have two shuti until mealtime.  Centurion Jovvok will arrive before then to brief you and assign your training."

   "A centurion?"

   "A leader of a group of the general's troops."

   Castillo blew a breath.  He'd known that.  "What kind of training is he assigning us?" he asked cautiously.

   "Jovvok will tell you," Emidas replied, softened a little to consider them again.  "I understand the humiliation you must feel.  I too am a tevol'oc, captured and purchased twenty-two years ago when others in my family suffered fatally for their wrongly held alliance.  However, I accustomed myself to my duty and now serve General Tokarel and thus the Empire with great honor.  I choose my rank, now.  The wise among my people assert the importance of our place; our labor, menial to the eyes of many, unwanted by those of greater rank, is essential for the smooth running of our society.  You will find few Romulan slaves feel shame; rather, you will see our resilience and outstanding sense of duty.  If you are worth your skin, you will come to own the same."

   Nods echoed around the group, but no one offered a comment.  Instead, their thoughts to themselves, their emotions capped for the moment, they quietly milled to an appropriate bunk and collected what had been left for them.  Staring down to his new array, Castillo quietly unfastened his rank bars from his uniform and slipped them into an outer pocket on the tunic.  The uniform would probably be recycled, and that was fine.  It was a mess, anyway.  But he wasn't giving up his bars unless he had to.

   They bathed:  They gave the women leave to wash and dress first; then the men took their turns.  For himself, Castillo felt the blast of ionized air and almost felt a kind of release, not having realized the extent of grime and stress that had been upon him.  It was too soon to contemplate what their families would soon be thinking.  It was too soon to consider how Starfleet would treat their final mission.  All Castillo knew was that the crew of the USS Enterprise had bought the Federation a means of negotiation with the Klingon Empire--they had bought a peace that, with any luck, would be lasting.

    _That's what I decided must happen no matter the consequence,_ he told himself firmly.  _That's all that matters now._

   He hoped beyond hope that they hadn't given themselves away in vain, that Tasha hadn't just offered her body to their enemy for an empty promise.  Then again, such doubt and pessimism should have crept up on him at that point.  Feeling the brief shower relieve his skin and his nerves, he realized that he was exhausted on top of the rest.

   It took little time to dress.  The men wore straight-cut trousers and thick socks, plain shirts beneath a thigh-length tunic, all in dark, drab green; they all wore sandals that Castillo hated to admit were very comfortable.  The women wore the same, though their tunics were longer, tied at the ribs with a thick sash, and had hoods that none of them chose to wear.

   Dacey was the last to come out of the lavatory area, completing their "block" in the center of the room.  Once again, none made a comment at first, though they all looked at one another, looked uncomfortable, unsure--overall, a little dazed, and probably as tired as Castillo knew he was as he contemplated sitting on the bunk.  But he knew if he let his knees loosen any more, he'd be lying down and unconscious a second later.

   The silence likewise offered no rest, he found.  Not even the ship's slight rumble disturbed the pall.  He could feel his heart in his ears.  Again, he looked at his shellshocked crewmates, but again, he didn't offer a break.  They all knew what had happened and what was going to happen, and they knew it was real.  What could one say about it after that?  No platitudes, no reminders of their training, nor any inspiration to give them hope sprang to Castillo then.  Thankfully, none of them looked as though they expected any.

   Not long after, the barrack doors slid swiftly open, revealing what was obviously Centurion Jovvok.  He was a Romulan who looked no older than Yang, with a pale olive face punctuated by a heavy, arched brow.  Ramrod upright in his grey and silver uniform and heavy black boots, the Romulan officer did not try to hide his disgust as he considered the captives before him.  Seething a breath, he yanked a PADD from his coat pocket and activated it.

   "You, Federation crew," he recited in a series of gnarls, "as a defeated party, have been found guilty of attempting to subvert a mission decreed by the Romulan Senate and have among you sent three hundred and twelve Romulan citizens to their deaths.  You therefore have been declared traitors of the state.  Found guilty, your execution has been commuted by General Tokarel in exchange for your labor and the agreement of one of your kind to stand as consort to the general.  These terms agreed upon, your revised sentence is a shift in rank to that of battle-acquired slave, as caste standard dictates.

   "Per this agreement between General Tokarel and the newly acquired consort, you will be treated _justly_ , with no inducement by manipulation or threat of violence.  However, you _will_ serve General Tokarel:  You will repay his debt with your labor and be bound entirely to his property until his rightful release.  Your assignment will involve agricultural labor at the general's compound.  You will spend the journey to Romulus in reeducation.  Once there, you will be overseen by the steward Badock and his assistant Emidas and obey the assignments as if sent by the general himself.  Deviation from orders severe enough to earn General Tokarel's notice will result in immediate arrest and isolation of the perpetrator, and the public humiliation of two others among you.  By the general's agreement, there will be no torture nor any executions."  A flick of a snarl showed his predictable disappointment in that last detail.  Then he looked up.  "Which leads among your block?"

   Castillo stepped toward him.  For the look of revulsion the centurion aimed at him, Castillo could not help his foreboding.  The others on the ship already know what they were and what they were to do and treated them accordingly.  Jovvok didn't seem to care about treating them to anything but what Rovrek had pined for.  For Jovvok's mentioning it, the general had probably made a point about his not being able to kill them.

   And he wondered again where Tasha was by then, if she was okay, or if...

   "You _lead_?" Jovvok asked..

   Castillo nodded.  "How can I help you?"

   "I need no _help_ from you, human farm slave," snarled the centurion, "but your duty to General Tokarel and to the Romulan Star Empire!  I come only at the command of General Tokarel to ease your excess of ignorance.  I pity Badock's duty for having to tolerate such a pathetic block of useless creatures."

   "Such is the shame for him, then," Dacey snipped under her breath, alive enough now to make it worse.  "So where are the cakes and tea, Sammy?"

   "Enough, Dacey," Mika told her firmly.

   The centurion leveled a stare at the young ensign.  His disgust was tempered only by the thin smile that formed at the corners of his mouth.  "I will remember you... _Dacey_ ," was all he said; then, to Castillo:  "You and your kind will report to the mess.  The others of this block will follow you there.  That one," he pointed at Dacey, "will stand in last position."

   Castillo watched Jovvok stride out as a milling began to sound behind him--the others coming into to the next area of that section.  Then Emidas reappeared, sweeping a look of approval of their revised array and gesturing toward the sounds.  "We eat now," she informed them and moved around to pull the women's hoods up and secure them onto the backs of each of their heads.  "You may let the hoods lay when in the bunkroom, but at all other times, you will be expected to be adorned as every other within your class.  Males, when you are supplied with cloaks, you will be required to fully wear them during all your travels from barracks to assignment.  You will be told when you may remove them during your assignments."

   "Is it breakfast or dinner?" Innivra asked, and Castillo sighed to himself.  He hadn't thought to wonder that, yet.

   "It is our last supplement," Emidas told them, shuffling them together like children in a school line.  Easing Dacey into last position per Jovvok's demand, they filed into the corridor.  "After the meal, you will be given leave to rest.  When you are awoken, you will accept your first lesson:  The Schedule."

* * *

  


   They learned the Schedule absolutely before setting foot on the Romulan homeworld, their new home for the foreseeable future. 

   The Schedule ruled the day on Romulan ships.  Every minute was allotted to a task, even relaxation and isolation.  Emidas assured them that the farm worked in clockwork fashion throughout every day, in every season and every year.  There were no questions; no one was unsure of where they were supposed to be and what they were supposed to do.  This was designed to be a comfort.

   "Breakfast" among the Romulans was a combination of a heavy, pudding-like mixture of meat and brown gravy, flatbread and deeply pungent steamed fruits, all filling and aromatic, but at the same time an almost unbearable combination of tang and spice.  The evening "supplement" had been even more so.  Even the "coffee" radiated through them all and made their eyes water.  Had they not been very hungry, Castillo was certain most of them would have forgone the meal.

   Ten or so minutes after the "morning supplement" was completed, still breathing to ward off the heat, they were led to a plain room with two oblong tables.  During the time in the Schedule that at the compound would be work shifts, the "Federation block" was seated with styluses and tablets to diagram the same schedule, to commit it absolutely to memory in their native languages while being provided with the Romulan language equivalent. 

   "You will be required to speak Jikraahk in the least," Emidas told them as she pointed out the angular letters.

   "I have some familiarity with it," Dacey said, leaning forward and examining the letters with squinted eyes.

   "You will be provided with more information," Emidas replied approvingly and tapped the display.  "For now, copy and dictate silently the winter storage procedures three times.  I will return."

   That they did for two full days, until their hands were sore and they all could say their eyes were burning.  Then they learned about every crop and piece of machinery.  When it all was recoded to Emidas' satisfaction, they were taken through virtual tours of the vast compound, garden and farm.  At the same time, they learned every rank and address of the officers there.

   "Not only for your sake," Emidas reiterated as she placed a PADD with their next topic before them, "but for the sake of us all.  We all are interconnected.  Nothing you do is without effect on us all, from your block to all tevol'oc, to all farm staff and finally the general's compound.  We all, each one of us, have great influence overall, _all_ our honor, and we protect it mightily.  Remember that."

   They could hardly forget.  She recited the mantra a few times each day.  Overall, their "reeducation" was a quick but utterly encompassing course, thrust upon them when they still felt every bit an officer in Starfleet.  But any official feeling was necessarily impotent, and so instead it festered as the weight of their predicament fully encapsulated them.

   Bent over the table, the stylus hanging loosely in his smooth, clean fingers, Castillo let out a breath to consider that day's topic, which was in fact on its fifth repeat.  He probably needed the repetition, though.  In his life, he'd never so much as kept a houseplant.

   "Maccha, spring, 15 centimeters, purple and green, harvested inverted and served fresh; west garden midday cut."

   They still woke expecting to be on the Enterprise again; through the long, lifeless day, they all had a difficult time accepting that they would not be reporting for duty nor performing to their specialty.  None of them thought aloud that they would never return to their homes, but they all suspected it.  They all feared the possibility.  Castillo was certain that it would be many years if ever, but he too kept it to himself.

   "Irrahk'ah, spring, 5 centimeters, yellow pods, grown to mulch shurrat plants, harvest pods for juicing, skin used for medicine; morning cut, section two east rows."

   Three weeks passed, one day rigorously onto the next, perfectly timed, perfectly regulated.  Each of them began to work more diligently if only to keep themselves busy, and each of them worked to make things easier in the future.  Castillo particularly knew precisely for whom he felt should be the least trouble there, though it indeed was a challenge even for the three science officers there.  None of them were farmers; they all had grown up with the comforts of the Federation.  Some had lived on replicated food for the majority of their lives and only Dacey had ever taken real wine--a prime point of their study, they quickly learned:  Shurrat wine. 

   A few other tevol'oc told them they must relinquish their education and experience if they planned on surviving in tact.  It would prove wise, for their sentence of agricultural slavery might never be commuted.

   They did not speak aloud of that, either.

   "Koga narchog, summer, 50 centimeters, green grain, laid flat; south field morning cut."

   Castillo set down his stylus and looked at his progress.  He'd been through the list three times that morning already and his tablet was full; only Innivra had finished, too.  Emidas was not back yet to give them more, and so Innivra, being typically Tyrellian in his patience and practice, clearing his sheet with a sweep of a finger, flipped his stylus in his long, slender fingers, pushed his smooth, brown hair from his brow then began to repeat the lesson.  Castillo sighed silently to himself and followed suit. 

   "Shurrat..."

   He released a long breath; his eyes drifted off the page.

   "Spring..."

   What was happening to that brave, steel-toed lieutenant who'd helped them win their fight?  What was she doing?  What "training" was _she_ being forced to consign to memory? 

   Castillo screwed his eyes shut for a moment.

   Sleep had not yet succeeded in wiping out his exhaustion.

   He had a feeling it never would, but he knew he could hardly complain.  He had no right.

   Would he ever sleep again?  Sleep without that constant pull of dread and regret stirring him awake to feel a pit pounding in his chest?

   Adamson elbowed his arm and he jerked his head up.  The younger man gestured to his tablet, where his pen had drifted, slicing a thick, long line in his entire document.  Cursing to himself, Castillo blew a breath and cleared the document to start over again.

* * *

  


   Before the hard, relentless winter lost its grip, when the dim sun chose at last to boast actual light for a few hours on that end of the world, he saw her again.

   Almost without thinking, he dropped his tools and bag and moved to the fence to try to catch a better glimpse of her.

   It had been sixty-four days since their capture.  He had begun to think she was being kept somewhere outside Rul'siat.

   But it was her.  It was her.

   To the crew's collective astonishment, the region in which the general was born and still lived while on layover was not a terrible place in itself.  Equally surprising, however, was the region's winter.

   Negating the idea of Romulans having much the same taste for winter as Vulcans, the new slave group was greeted upon their arrival by a stab of dry, arctic air in the middle of a near sunless day, which soon fell into a pitch black night with pinpoint stars deep in the moonless sky.  Emidas had informed them early on that they would reside on the northern continent of Romulus, a markedly different climate from the dry, hazy sun of the capital and its surrounding regions.  While said to be relatively brighter throughout a cool, humid summer, its winter season was long, dark and bitter, even to natives of Rul'siat.  The staff quarters and workstations were brightly lit and warm to make up for the deficit and to prevent detrimental reactions to the season.

   They had arrived just before the Mukharoshov, the midwinter Feast of Continuance, which, Emidas instructed them, focused on patience and deep reflection.

   Castillo did not have to reflect long to frown at the irony.

   Even in the dim, however, the impressive landscape surrounding the vast property was easy to appreciate.  Rul'siat was a rough, hilly region with thick forests and vast, thriving waterways, and the compound was situated in a valley between a series of ranges that stretched on every edge except to the north.  Two high mountains sat in the middle of the western horizon like canine teeth between shorter, jagged peaks.  Each tip was lit icy green and dusted with orange on the edges.  One boasted a wide, moss-colored river flowing over boulders down its center.  On the other side of the compound and across an expansive, pebbled mall, a vast garden horseshoed around the far end of a large, brown stucco building, which Castillo first guessed was the main house; then, stretching across the rolling valley, was the land and farm on which they quickly learned to labor.

   About sixty other laborers worked at the compound farm, harvesting everything from the various parts of the shurrat and various vines and vegetables to rocks and greenhouse flowers--an all-year industry, which not only exported product but also supported the household.  Some there, all Romulans of equal status, had been born into slavery--called khurr'oc in Romulan.  The tevol'oc there had largely been members of crews on ships that had opposed General Tokarel or, worse, the Star Empire.  Those forty-one other tevol'oc working that farm had been the lucky ones allowed to survive. 

   The majority of their work in that last half of winter involved packing stored produce, maintaining the machinery and tending a variety of frozen fields, subterranean greenhouses, warehouses and out buildings.  When the vineyard growing season began, their work would involve helping to cultivate, pick and process the berries that were eventually made into shurrat wine, a delicacy among Romulans that replication could not hope to mimic, according to Emidas, who had enjoyed the delicacy in her youth.

   While the shurrat plant exuded a rich cherry-like aroma, berries were actually quite bitter, dark orange and delicate enough that they needed to be picked by hand with a careful eye--thus the need for field workers rather than robots.  Also, various medicinal products were derived from the bush's twigs, leaves, flowers and roots, as well as from the irrahk'omb vines' pods.  That plant, a sticky, yellow vine, was also grown at the berry plants' feet to secure the soil and drive off pests.

   In the autumn, the irrahk'omb was cut back, the healthy shurrat bushes were trimmed and tied, and spent bushes were divided, seeded, dried, packed and sent to the laboratories on the south continent.  Then the majority of the farm staff would focus on processing the berries into wine, which consumed the first half of winter.  Only the most experienced khurr'oc worked in the laboratories that cultivated the seeds into new plants under a dedicated botanist's direction.  Tevol'oc, no matter how many years in service, were not trusted enough for that delicate duty.

   Almost immediately upon starting his work in the pressing plant, Castillo noticed that the dark orange shurrat juices had deeply stained his fingers and nails.  When he furrowed his brow at it, the Romulans stationed at the adjacent press chuckled at him.

   "You now bear the brand of a Rul'siat slave," smiled Kivos.  The man displayed his deeply stained and callused fingertips.  "There is no escape now."

   Castillo was not amused, but he appreciated their mild congeniality.

   Ironically, the ones born into slavery, called khurr'oc, were more understanding to the newcomers.  While few of them were necessarily warm, they welcomed the nine aliens with a simple "Jolan Tru" and a relatively pleasant expression.  Kivos and Narin, two of three khurr'oc assigned to watch over the new block, came to their cluster two hours before daybreak to lead them to wash and take first meal.  The third, Tharol, joined them afterwards to help them receive and explain their assignments.  At last, they retrieved their heavy cloaks and moved into the court before the barracks. 

   There, they were invited to honor the rising sun with the others, all gathering in orderly lines.

   "It is not required that you join us," Tharol told them as they moved quickly down.  "However, it is prudent to remain near and together as a block when we are grouped exclusively each sunrise."

   "Sunrise?" Dacey queried sardonically.  "A burning ball of gas out there?  How ordinary a state for the Empire."

   "Quiet, Dacey," Mika whispered.

   "I've been quiet enough," the younger woman complained, but when Ferro practically sank into her cloak, she huffed a sigh and wrapped up, too.  "Never mind me, Sandra," she dismissed tersely.  "No one else does."  With that, she slid aside.

   Standing back and out of the way, they watched the rows organize and straighten.  Then, the whole turned to face the hint of light on the horizon, far past the jagged peaks and well south.  It would remain so for the time that there was any light, then sink along the other end, devoured by the fanged range.  But that was not now.  Now, the day was new, the tevol'oc and khurr'oc were gathered, and with a fistful of the frigid morning air held aloft, all faced that distant star, steady before Badock, who led them.

   "Iglahk!"

   "Iglahk tiki chabbrolg hochka migret; mich'as ag davo pah kro'shkok!"

   "Give us strength and courage, Great Star," Dacey quietly translated, "keep us on the path that brings us honor."

   "Iglahk toh!" the others continued.

   "Guide us, Great Star."  Dacey's brow flicked up.  "It's what we'd probably call Old High Romulan...  Very ancient roots in those conjunctions."

   Mika gave her a look.  "You're learning quickly," she remarked.

   "I'd dabbled in it, already," the younger woman reminded her.  "In secondary school, a chum gave me access to some databanks and I fell in love with the rhythm and the sounds."

   "I can hear that," Mika nodded.  "It almost sounds familiar, but not Vulcan at all that I can tell."

   "True.  It's less Vulcan than the ancient Germanic tongues of Earth, really, in its elocution:  Heavy, open vowels and guttural accents, very expressive, yet simple to pronounce once one knows the rules.  Their lettering system has the same expressiveness--and it's very precise."  Shaking off her train of thought and the resulting speck of positive energy, she muttered, "Anyway, I'm learning a lot more now, since Emidas gave me the primers."

   "I have a feeling we're going to need your services, then, Ensign Kerr," Adamson said.

   "Give me a hoop and I'll jump through it?" Dacey rejoined, frowning.  "Aye, right."

   His brow furrowed.  "Sorry, but am I bothering you?"

   "You are, in fact," she answered truthfully.

   "What's so unreasonable about asking you to do your job, Ensign?"

   "That you asked at all."

   "What is your problem?" Castillo demanded.

   At last, she tore her eyes away from the chanting to glare up at her commanding officer.  "Are you truly asking me that, sir?  Our ship is _torn apart_ , all our friends and crewmates are _killed_ , our lives are _gone_ , our careers defunct, we're on _Romulus_ and we're _slaves_.  Why ever should I have a _problem_ , sir?"  Hissing, she spun and turned back for the barracks.

   Mika just shook her head.  "Let her go, Castillo.  She's been...  She needs to deal with it, like the rest of us."

   Castillo was not comforted.  "You need to tell her to fold it down before she gets us all in trouble."

   "You can tell her, too, you know."

   "I can, but since you feel the need to speak for her every time she disappears, I thought you'd like to keep the job."  He leaned closer.  "Look, Jovvok's still watching her and the rest of us, and the other people here aren't exactly blind--or mute.  God knows what 'the guest' is having to deal with, or if she'll pay for any of our issues.  Tell Dacey to dial it down--now."

   Mika nodded impatiently at the reminder.  "I'll take care of it, Castillo."

   After the morning chant, each block was permitted to retrieve their gear, and then they were led to the processing facility, where they were set to work that day cleaning the roll rods.  More orange shurrat, more stains, under his nails and up the soft undersides of his wrists.  Castillo rubbed futilely at the stain every day on the way back from the plant.

   The Schedule rolled on, over and over, and the days began to pass, one onto another, with one assignment growing into the next, and Castillo understood that they were being tested for skills, latent and learned.  They soon found their "block" divided into three labor groups.  Dacey, Mika and Sharesh, the most technically adept, worked mainly in maintenance and repair with the trio of Kivos, Narin and Tharol.  Innivra, Parker and Ferro, the most visually oriented, were assigned to grounds maintenance.  Being the strongest, Castillo, Yang and Adamson found themselves moving and loading goods and materials from throughout the farm and reporting directly to Badock or the trade liaison with their inventories.  When the long winter at last subsided and the growing season began, Badock informed them, they all would be assigned to the fields for two of three days on the first and third rotations.

   In the morning, shortly at mid-shift and in the evening, they had a little time for themselves.  Each morning and evening, they bathed and dressed in their "section," a semi-private bunkroom much like the one on the ship, with its own shower and latrine and separate bunks arranged in a circle around the otherwise plain space.  Only a long slit window overlooking the processing complex decorated the walls. 

   After breakfast and before dinner, they were permitted some time to stroll around outside.  They could do so with surprising freedom within the farm section of the compound.  The general's territory was well enough guarded that they knew an unarmed slave could be no threat.  The other tevol'oc there admitted that escape would not only be stupid, but also useless.  Rul'siat was a remote continental peninsula with more compounds than communities.  Anyone foolish enough to leave safe confines would likely be gouged by giant boars or poisoned by arachnids.  The prey birds that perpetually circled over the valley would devour the remains.  Anyone insane enough to cause any damage in the facilities whilst attempting to escape or commit any other form of treason would be dragged out for all to view, stripped and slowly killed.

   "And the humiliation would be well deserved," Emidas told them one evening.  She liked to visit various blocks before shutdown.  Her lips upturned, she leaned on the door jamb and gestured to the window.  "The general assures the well-being of us all, far more than most.  You have only seen this compound, and so you do not understand how conditions can be, despite laws that are designed to protect us and safeguard the health of our caste.  Any who would threaten our privileges would be fortunate to survive long enough to endure their official retribution."

   "Your people seem very focused on public shows of reward and punishment," Mika observed.

   "It is a powerful incentive," Emidas acknowledged, "and an excellent tool for measuring both prodigies and fools."

    Unable to be one and avoiding seeming like the other, the farm staff instead used their free time to wander, chat a bit amongst one other or maybe take in some silence for the first time all day, a little numb, usually a little sleepy.  The nine captive humans especially needed to adjust to the light difference and the slightly greater pull of gravity.  The former was far more challenging, as it played on many other, increasingly buried anxieties. 

Still, as the height of winter faded, there came more to look at.  The cold air grew moist and developed a sweetness about it that spoke of the trees preparing for spring.  Hawks flew far overhead, looking for food as creatures began to emerge from their burrows.  Other small birds danced and hunted through the garden and adjacent wood.  Colorful flying insects began to seek the earliest blooms to peek from the mossy ground.

   The garden easily was the centerpiece of the compound.  Winding around the house and pouring out far behind all the way to a colorful wood, it looked like a carving of nature more than an actual park, threatening to be ornate had it been any less carefully planned and designed indeed to be viewed and walked through.  Even with little sunlight and few steady paths, they could look deeply into it even from across the mall.  When Castillo and the others passed en route to their day's assignment, he saw workers constantly inside it, trimming the winter growth, collecting leaves, berries and heads of what looked like small cabbages--the maccha he had studied.  Others trimmed billowing evergreens and tiny bushes, set feeders for some animals and traps for others, particularly the vibiiad, a poisonous and aggressive rodent that was native to the region.  Castillo chalked it up as yet another thing to hate about the planet.

   And yet, at any angle and despite its threats, the garden was enviable.  Without his wanting to, Castillo found himself wondering what it must be like in the summer.

   More than that, of course, they continued to think about what had happened to the woman who had made certain they were there in the first place, that they were well provided for and left alone by guards who did the other slaves far fewer favors.  Easily, they understood that this was the cause of the other tevol'ocs' disdain for the humans.  Not that Castillo had decided to care about that.  His fingers were orange, his upper back ached, his mind had become numb for lack of diversion, anger, no options and the three lingering questions within him:  Would their conditions last?  Would they ever get home?  Would Tasha ever be able to follow him out of there? 

   When they left the barracks and moved across to the facilities and he briefly had a good view across the compound, he found himself staring at the brown stucco block nestled into one end of the garden--the general's family house.  Only house staff seemed to enter and leave it.  The many long windows showed no evidence of a human inside.  Was she in the capital, where the general spent his days?  Had she been kept on the ship?  How horribly did she suffer under his hand?  She was a strong woman, but that kind of violation had to be depleting, day after day.  How was she able to deal with it?

   At last, after sixty-four days, forty-six on Romulus, he got at least a couple of answers.

   They were digging out dead cravog bushes, and so he had a belt with loops filled with tools and both hands around necks of an automatic rotary spade and a driving pick when he left the supply building.  He'd actually been glad to be assigned to another day outside despite the weather being so cold that his teeth hurt every time he slipped and stopped breathing through his frozen nostrils.  He was about to begin warming up with a few drives into the rock-hard soil when Yang happened to glance over and stop.

   "Castillo, look."

   Castillo barely heard his tool clatter to the ground. 

   In fact, the whole world disappeared with but that glance at her fair face, set deeply within a fleece-lined hood, which was draped over the shoulders of a beige, knee-length walking coat.  It was belted at her slim waist and likewise lined with fleece.  Covering the rest of her legs were boots and stockings of the same color--an elegant outfit even to his plain eye.  She was disturbingly beautiful there, calm, steady, but displaying no emotion.  Then the general joined her, pulling a supply bag onto his shoulder.  He was warmly dressed below an expansive brown cloak and hood, which he pushed back before taking her upper arm into his hand.

   Tasha did not respond to the possessive move; rather, she walked beside the general without a glance at the fence, though Castillo was there, staring in rapt fascination.  He wished she would see him, hoped she wouldn't, wondered where the general was taking her and wanted to cross that fence more than he'd wanted to cross anything in his life but knowing it would be the last thing he did.

   Her gait was still her own, well postured and certain, but slower, smoother.  She walked at the general's side in such a manner that told him she knew where she was going, which led to another row of concerns for Castillo to ponder.

   Yang lowered his gaze and turned to pick up Castillo's tools.  "The holes won't dig themselves," he offered.  "Might help to take a few chunks out of this planet, anyway."

   Castillo breathed a little cough for want of a laugh.  He flicked a brief half-smile of thanks to his friend and took his tools back.  "Yeah.  It would."

* * *

  


   Hours later, as they were well done with their day and awaiting dinner, Castillo returned outside for a little privacy.  Rubbing his stained fingers together inside his cloak sleeves, squeezing his toes inside his thick socks, he sank onto a bench, leaned back, sighed deeply and looked up at the sky.  In the cold mist, he saw the arc, now familiar, of a long-winged hawk that seemed to patrol overhead, loop over the valley, circle the tip of the peaks in the distance then return.  It was on its way out again, he could tell.  It spun over the mist, seeming almost to clear it away, revealing a pitch sky spotted with tiny, colorful stars.

   He'd quickly become accustomed to that view, too.  Being a pilot, he had long known how to look at the galactic starfield from many angles.  It generally took him revising his native perspective from his boyhood view from Hannev II.  Romulus was no exception.  In fact, the patterns and clusters were even easier to pick out, thanks to the dull sun, the tilt of that world and their happening to be near the top of it in late winter.  It was only early evening there, and it was still the best view from a planet he had ever experienced.

   It wasn't nearly enough to comfort him, but it was something outside of what he had to live.  Something.

    _Am I going to see another view beside this again?_ he sighed at those stars, wishing he were anywhere but there, devoid of anything but working for the sake of others, hoping for some dim chance of getting traded or the Federation believing they were alive and making the deal to free them.

   He never told the others about his doubts, but he was sure they could sense his worsening mood.  When they were first dumped there, he'd tried to remain businesslike, a cool leader with an infusion of hope for hope's sake as they all silently processed their change of life and learned about the new one.  Now he had to make a great effort to feel like leading anything at all.  The work was brainless but tiring, and the growing season was yet to come.  The freedoms the other slaves were thankful for were insults to him.  Centurion Jovvok still followed and taunted them in such a way that there was no telling when or if he would make a move against them; the other tevol'oc, too, remained suspicious and unwilling to assist.  Overall, he felt completely powerless to prevent their conditions from getting worse.  He could stick up for his people, but that was it.  If the general changed his mind tomorrow and decided to have them all publicly tortured, he could do nothing but let it happen.

   At that, Castillo's thoughts spun back to Tasha.  Seeing her had both made and crushed his day, gave him answers while asking a host more.  She at least looked well, for what he could see in that brief view.  He tried not to think about the general--more than thrice her age--was doing to her, or about the humiliation she must feel, and uselessness, when she had to lie down and accept the Romulan's advances.  (He shook his head with a jerk to kill the visual.) Tasha had to live every day knowing how she had fallen from a position of authority to what amounted to being little more than a sex object, to be disposed of at the general's will.  Would that ever happen?  And what would happen to her...and to them?

   Where had they gone?  What was happening to her?

   Tasha probably never said a word, was likely being strong and doing what she felt was the right thing, but he knew she had to be suffering in that role she'd accepted for their sakes.  She probably thought as he continually did:  When would they ever get out of that place?  Would they ever...

   "The gate!  Vicchib!  The general approaches!"

   Castillo jumped up from the bench and crossed the court to the fence.  Mika, already there, glanced back.  Castillo passed her to get a full view.

   At first he stared through the grate, anxious when he didn't see Tasha there; but then, as the general came through the gate and the wind down the mall hit his cloak, it blew back and revealed Tasha cradled in his arms.  The brief look Castillo got of her face showed that she did not look injured or in pain.  Her cheeks were rosy, at least, and one of her hands clasped his arm.

   But then he understood that Tasha had needed to be carried, and his sense of alarm doubled.

   The general's sister came out with two house staff in tow, throwing her cloak over her shoulders as she crossed the mall.  Guards backed up and addressed her as she came through to meet the general and his burden.  Speaking a few words, she calmed when the general shook his head and continued across the mall with Tasha comfortably settled against him, her long, soft boots swaying gently with his gait.

   Lights lit and the entrance re-opened, revealing his personal staff and the door attendant.  The general brushed aside whatever they said to him and carried his consort into the main building.

   The lights extinguished when the doors sealed.

   Castillo was left standing there, now wondering what had happened, why the general had to carry her and what he would do to her once he got her to her quarters...

   Exhaling his agitation, he yet could not break his grip on the grate.

   "She didn't look hurt," offered Mika gently.  Still standing next to him, she almost touched his arm, but left her hand fall to her side.  She tried to catch his gaze, but he couldn't meet anyone's eyes just then.  "Dradar didn't look worried about her.  With the gravity and the cold weather, traveling would be...tiring."

   Castillo shrugged.  It was a weak explanation, but he needed something.  "Yeah, Dradar let him go."

   The general's sister was essentially the lady of the main house, but she did have occasional contact with the two barracks.  She usually sent for items from the farm through Badock, who reported to her as well as to the general.  But sometimes she came in person.  A sharp-witted woman with no professional occupation who had lived on that farm since her birth about a hundred years ago, Dradar also was known to keep track of the inhabitants of the compound, arranging assignments when she saw fit and remaining aware of every worker within it.  She had a reputation for showing up with no warning to check on production and inspect casks and flats, query the workers on their procedure and send Badock possible solutions for whatever she saw was not working to expectations she felt the general would want upheld.

   Even with her approach to business there, none of them could say she once had touched a piece of equipment or pulled a single berry from a bush.  But then, Castillo was reminded that it was far from her place to do any such thing.  Dradar was the sister of a highly regarded general, the primary overseer of an old Romulan estate and compound and the possessor of both excellent rank and taste--according to Narin, who had briefly worked inside the household as a door attendant.  She would never dishonor the duty of those below her, nor dishonor herself by mocking their responsibilities.  At the same time, she knew them all by name and was not above touching their arm in greeting.

   So Dradar's keen interest in the staff had brought her out into the mall to meet her brother and his consort, but if her concern for the slaves was to be believed, the dissipation of her visible concern over Tasha was encouraging.

   So maybe Mika was right.  Maybe Tasha had just fallen asleep.  After a couple of months of inactivity--he was certain they didn't let her be active like she had been as an officer--she probably only was permitted a small fraction of her usual exercise.  Her diet must be different, too.  Castillo felt sick inside all over again.

   He hated General Tokarel all the more for making Tasha go out like that.  He hated him for...  _Hell, I just hate him, period._

   Castillo left the fence.  His thoughts were too fixed on what he could nothing about, he realized.  They had been for a while.  He would drive himself mad.  Madness would be much easier than trying to keep himself together in that hell, but it wouldn't keep him alive.  For that matter, it wouldn't bring his dinner to him.

* * *

  


   "Another day, another tie rod," Dacey reported as she sank down onto the bench with her breakfast.

   "That's your assignment again?" Castillo asked her.

   "I'm not good for much else," she sighed and plunked her spoon into the grainy porridge the Romulans called margahrl.  She did not put the spoon near her mouth, however.

   "Dacey, don't put off eating again," Mika advised her.  The lieutenant had been more concerned than usual about her lately.  Half of them, Castillo included, had lost notable weight since their incarceration, but Dacey, already small boned with naturally fair skin and black hair, had earned a downright deathly appearance.  "Your strength is important here."

   "Uhiir ihhi iba nashyl birrochk," Dacey answered, but did pull up a blob of mush for consideration. 

   "Cut it out, Dacey," Castillo muttered.  The young Ensign had also taken to choosing a language every few hours to keep herself from forgetting what she now called her "favorite hobby."  While admirable, it was equally annoying for more reasons than one.  "You have all day to curse the machinery."

   "Ul hegarit tol pahkiiv," she grumbled and at last shoveled a mound of margahrl into her mouth.

   Badock leaned over to hand Dacey the clearance pin she needed for her day in maintenance, and then did the same for Mika and Sharesh.  "Your practice of Movagh is admirable and a testament to Deviar's guidance during your time together, Dacey; however, you should teach the others to speak the Rul'siat dialect, so no translators are necessary.  Your Jikraahk inflection has come close to perfection since you have removed your translator."

   "I have been troubled by the mixed conditionals in the Rul'siat dialect," Dacey hedged, replying in that same and translatable Romulan dialect, her eyes on her bowl now, "among other aspects."

   "Resources can be acquired, particularly when staff would be nothing but improved by communicating well.  Your difficulties will be eradicated with proper instructive materials."  Badock nodded to himself, looking around at them all.  "You will be provided the required materials and I will reserve a section from the schedule for this purpose.  You will study the materials, and then you will teach the Federation block to my satisfaction."

   Dacey's eyes had already widened in horror, but only for a moment.  "Yes, Badock."  When the farm steward was gone, she slumped back to her meal once more.

   Watching her start into another string of unintelligible grumbles, Castillo couldn't help his anger.  "How much more of your infantile behavior is going to get us in trouble, Ensign?" he demanded.

   "Fuck right off, sir."

   "What?"

   "I said, _fuck right off, sir_ ," she repeated, meeting his glare with one she'd become very comfortable wearing since their arrival.  "I didn't get you in trouble because you're not in trouble.  They've been on that idea before--only that I've been the only one to respond to it, because I could.  And my holding on to the _one thing_ I’ve got left in this useless, wasted life is _my_ right and _my_ choice.  And stop calling me ensign.  Such as it was, my rank's obviously as dead and gone as the ship you rode us in on.  The name's Dacey, and you'll use it from now on or none at all!"

   Tears starting in her eyes, she shoved her food away and ran back to their block to grab her hood and get out of the barracks.

   "I never asked for any of this!" she shot back at them from the door.  "Devil rot you all if you've got nothing better to do than to dump the lot on me!"

   Blowing a breath slowly through his nostrils, Castillo looked at his food again.  He'd stopped minding the spiciness of it, and in fact had come to enjoy the hot margahrl. 

   "Castillo," Ferro said quietly as she twisted her fork in hers, "could you ask us first next time?  Dacey might not want to be a teacher, but it's a good idea that we learn."

   He sighed.  Every Romulan in there probably saw him as compromised--again--by Dacey’s lack of control and last word.  Now even Ferro felt the need to question him.  "Yeah, it is," he admitted.

   "I'm actually amazed that Dacey's been able to hold it in so well since we got here," Mika joined in.  "Not that she did too well just now, but really, this has been as big a challenge for her as anything else."

   Castillo instantly recalled the many moments in the briefing room regarding Ensign Kerr's "vibrant linguistic skills," as Captain Garrett had called it before recommending Mika to be her watchdog and guide. 

    _"She's probably just been let out of the cage too quickly,"_ Garrett had grinned.  _"Let's give this a try before shutting her back in--beak first."_

   Leaning back in his seat, trying otherwise to stay out of it, Castillo had chuckled under his breath.  While tough, relentless and astute beyond measure, his captain had a great way about people--not to mention visual imagery.  Mika had agreed and set off with Commander Larik to revise the schedule. 

   Captain Garrett had returned to her seat and looked at them all in turn.  _"What's next?"_ she'd asked.  Lieutenant Ivanov had taken it from there, detailing their newest upgrades....

   Castillo closed his eyes. 

   It was still hard to know they all were dead now--dead with purpose, but gone from existence, and no one would know how Captain Garrett had really met her end.

   It felt good to remember life as he knew it, but it hurt like hell, too.  It was very likely the same for Dacey, who lived at her family's farm with her husband back on Earth.  And he remembered something else Captain Garrett had noted about Ensign Kerr's personality.  _"She's probably nervous about something.  She seems the sort to project anxiety verbally instead of internalizing it.  Considering what I’ve seen stress do to some officers, she probably has a healthy approach, if not an insubordinate one."_

   "None of the rest of us are married or even had anything going on the side--that I know of," Mika went on, too close to his thoughts for comfort that time.  "She's still dealing with the idea of widowing her husband when she's still alive, and giving up what she sees as any chance of starting a family, on top of everything else.  There's a lot going on that you don't know about, Castillo."

   "Yeah, that too."

   "So be a little more understanding.  She's not going to handle anything the way you want her to."

   "I got the point, Mika," he answered, the present and the past now stinging his conscience.  "I _got_ it." 

   "You get it, but you need to act like it," she pressed, "and I'm getting sick of having to defend her from someone who should know better but can't make up his mind how to behave.  I know she's an easy target because of the way she responds to you, but that doesn't give you the right to take your problem out on her."

   "Fine."  Sighing, Castillo left the table and went to find Dacey at her usual perch outside.  Unlike the others, she had continued to be fascinated by the other slaves chanting their praise of the Great Star.  She admitted to her love of the language they used, but she really did seem to study the rhythm and movements, mouthing along to herself.  It was what she did, and she was lucky enough to be able to hang onto a part of what she had been, her gift, unlike the others.

   Unlike him. 

   That in mind, he looked all around the ground-lit court, but he didn't find her among those who had gathered, or anywhere else along the row.  She had gone to her shift early, he figured, so Castillo turned back for the barracks and the rest of his breakfast, shoving his hands into his cloak pockets, thinking about spring, light and warmth.  He didn't bother thinking about freedom that time.

   He didn't want to be the leader some days.  For all his guts and determination in his career, he felt nothing but tired now--tired, disillusioned, defeated.  At the same time, he knew it was his responsibility to take care of them, and he knew he'd earned his position on the Enterprise because he could handle that load in difficult situations.  Captain Garrett had depended on him, trusted him, and no one would know about the last days of her life.  No would know of _her_ valor, _her_ incredible sense of responsibility and sacrifice.  It made him feel even doubly ineffectual now, in his doubt, handily exacerbating his sour state of mind.

   But then, his mind of late had a way of being changed only hours after he'd firmly made it.

   "Sikara!" bellowed Jovvok.  "Stand, you dishonorable wretch!  Waste of good Romulan skin!"

   Coughing and trembling fiercely, the tevol'oc staggered to her feet.  Her eyes burned with hatred, but also with fear.  "You command!" she responded.

   "Would I command you, you would die in your shame," he snarled in return and flung his gloved fist out to strike her face.  With a cry, she reeled and fell to the ground again.

   Castillo, Adamson, Yang, Sharesh and Ferro all watched from the corner of the processing unit as the disciplining continued.  Sikara, to their knowledge a difficult inmate, had carelessly pulled a release cord in the storage units, releasing a season's worth of irrahk'ah nectar onto the plant's floor.  Then she had the great stupidity of cursing Jovvok when he prowled onto the scene.  Whilst her block scooped up the sticky mess, Jovvok yanked the rebellious one out into the middle of the row and proceeded to give them all, en route to second assignment, a look at his brand of consequences.

   No one so much as twitched to help or resist.  They knew far better than to interfere.  Even Hajat, the farm staff's medical technician, stood aside with her case, waiting to tend to the woman when Jovvok was done.

   But Jovvok wasn't done.  He instead took particular pleasure in marking every centimeter of the relatively fair and pretty woman and forcing her to crawl on her knees only to meet his block-toed boot.  Several cracks met the force of his kick, and Sikara wailed with pain and humiliation when she rolled over and saw the growing audience.

   "Return for more!" Jovvok ordered.

   Sikara shuddered and rolled onto her hands and knees.  "I...obey you...Centurion...Jovvok," she choked.

   Again, he kicked her in the midsection, hurling her over onto her back.

   "Return for more!" His open baritone echoed off every building.

   "I can't watch this anymore," Ferro wept, slumping with dread, but Narin grabbed her arm before she could turn away.

   "You must watch," she whispered quickly to her ear.  "You will make him notice you if you resist the lesson he teaches us all.  More, the other tevol'oc will know you are weak and seek your vulnerability in the future."

   "I don't care about that!"

   "You must if you and your people are to fend amongst the others," Narin pressed, holding Ferro in place and whispering emphatically into her ear.  "Watch Sikara, how she bears her punishment.  She is strong and smart but over-proud.  However, she will learn that pride can have a place only in our duty performed to perfection.  It is unfortunate that it must happen under his hateful hand, but she will survive and improve, as we all must do."

   "None of that's going to matter when she's dead!"

   "Jovvok is not permitted to kill or permanently damage the general's property.  So watch, learn and understand."

   "Who speaks?" Jovvok asked, stopping abruptly at the distraction.

   Narin released Ferro's arm and stepped forward.  "I spoke, Centurion Jovvok," she said starchly, her straight back unchanged before him.

   "Why?"

   "It is my duty in part to teach this block the Romulan way which you uphold.  I have told this one that you teach us all a valuable lesson in honoring our duty and our place in the Empire, and how our dishonor sullies each of our rank."

   Jovvok's lips turned up, but his eyes remained as cold as the concrete beneath Sikara's face.  With a flick of his green-smeared hand, he barked toward the irrahk'ah plant doors.  "You!  Gollug block!"

   The four other members of that block presented themselves a moment later, stained from the knees down with the nectar and pale with cold.  One of them, a young man, looked upon Sikara with a gasp.

   The centurion seemed to enjoy that, too.  "You will follow your sister's path in disgrace should you once consider retaliation," he warned then looked at the rest.  "The Federation block will now complete the work you have neglected to perform to the level of a common eel."  He looked at Castillo.  "You and your block will take their supplies and finish their assignment.  And you..."  He looked at Sharesh.  "This farm slave is hereafter assigned Sikara's duty.  Gollug block is henceforth assigned to the field irrigation trails for the duration of the season."

   Though there was no love between their blocks, Castillo instantly pitied them.  Maintaining irrigation trails meant working in the unbuffered fields, hauling rocks into the gullies and positioning them precisely for hours on end.  There was assistance equipment they could use, but it was reserved as punishment for a reason.  His block taking their relatively comfortable duty was not going to earn them any respect.  But with a breath of resignation, as Sikara gasped and retched on her tears at Jovvok's toes, and the centurion waited, Castillo stepped forward and gestured for the others to follow him.  He tried to apologize with his eyes when he drew the extraction rod from the Gollug leader's hand, but all he got in reply was a snarl.

   "You are Jovvok's whore," said Churbok.

   Castillo forced his eyes and back to stay straight, and he nudged Sharesh when he hesitated to take the rod from Sikara's brother, whose heartache quickly morphed to resentment.

   "And you," finished Jovvok as he looked at Narin, "will drag this malignancy to the clinic then train her to behave as one of her rank in the Empire.  You are now responsible for her conduct, khurr'oc.  She is no longer to be grouped with the Gollog block, but your own."

   Looking back from the plant, Castillo swallowed his bile.  Narin had from their first day on Romulus been their kindest adviser.  Tall and stout, her hands had yet been gentle and sure as she led them through every assignment, every piece of machinery.  That Jovvok had locked her life to Sikara's seemed particularly spiteful.

   Narin accepted her duty with a deep bow.  Gingerly, she drew Sikara from the cement and nodded at Hajat.  Speaking quick and quiet words to the boneless former Gollug tevol'oc, she drew the spectacle away.

   "Aregen," Jovvok then commanded Sikara's brother as he motioned to the green-smudged cement, "will clean his sister's filth from the general's pavement."

   Aregen shuddered with loathing, but he did manage to bow and accept the duty with the quiet reply, "I obey you, Centurion Jovvok."

   Turning from the scene to a day of mopping and resorting, Castillo still did not want to be the leader some days.  He wished more than anything sometimes he were behind the conn panel, shooting through the stars, off to another discovery, another wonder, another home.  He wished for his _life_ back.  But that wasn't going to happen, and he could never relinquish his position among them as long as he could remember Captain Garrett.  He'd taken her ship back through the rift for her and for the future.  He had to know that he had one shard of honor in continuing to honor all she had given up, too, for the same. 

   Captain Garrett, Tasha, Narin--they all had sacrificed themselves without complaint.

   They all had led and had given all of themselves.  How could he refuse to?

* * *

  


   "Have a seat, Dacey," he said that evening just before retirement.  "I'll keep it short."

   The young woman looked around at the others then grudgingly lowered herself to the bunk beside Mika.

   "We've all been adjusting," Castillo started, "if you can call it that.  There are no words that can describe what any of us is going through well enough, nothing that can make it better, nothing that'll give us a solution we want for the foreseeable future.  Starfleet probably doesn't know we're here, and while I'm sure they'll launch an investigation to find some evidence of the Enterprise's fate and suspect something's up, I think we can safely assume we're not getting out of here any time soon.  I've had as hard a time dealing with that as you have.

   "But Dacey said one thing that made a lot of sense this morning:  we do have to hold onto something, something we love, something that makes us...what we are.  What we know is one thing, and I admit, I was wrong to argue with you about that. Dacey.  As we found out at mid-shift with the incident with Sikara, I have no right to complain.  What we _are_ is another thing, and we have to figure that out for ourselves.  But one other thing we are is what we came from:  We are Starfleet officers and, more importantly here, we're a team.  We have to continue to work together and support each other and be there for each other when another's in need.

   "I apologize if I haven't done that as much as I could have, and I can't promise every day's going to be my best.  We all need one another's help to get through this, to stick together and deal with this day to day.  I promise from now on that I'll do all I can to achieve that."

   Nods circled the room and stopped at Dacey.  Still frowning, she pushed her knees to stand and walked across the block to the entrance.  "I need some water," she said, disappearing a moment later.

   Innivra shrugged.  "She didn't argue," he said hopefully then shook his superior's hand.  "Thank you, sir."

   "Just Castillo," he grinned, accepting the handshake and not realizing until he did that he'd really needed that--to handle the one thing he _could_ handle and see some benefit from.  It was definitely worth a little skunk from Dacey, who'd inspired him in the first place.  So he wouldn't push her for more.  He had what he needed in order to deal with their situation, at least.  The rest he could, at last, take as it came...for the most part, anyway.

   Soon after Castillo's promise and new commitment to straighten himself out, spring finally came to Rul'siat.  To their collective wonder, the region at last proved that sunlight could shine fully there, that the steady chill had somewhere else to go for a while, and that things indeed did grow from that bitter soil.

   It was not the only thing growing there.

* * *

  


   "Richard."

   He almost didn't hear the voice, hardly a whisper behind him as he dumped the rest of the maccha heads into his cart.  Though not his favorite duty, he had come to enjoy maccha, which tasted like braised fennel with a dose of cayenne, the way Rejir prepared it.

   Thinking about that and not expecting for all the world the owner of that voice to be behind him, it took a second or two for him to register it.  But then he did, and his gut turned.  Was it her?  Did he hear that right?

   When he turned and straightened, it still took him a moment to believe it.  Tasha was standing not two meters away, and while she kept her hands folded in front of her, she smiled gently at him.  In a second glance, a creeping feeling began to fall over him.  Why he didn't notice at once how much she had changed right away was immediately disturbing.  But he saw it now:  Her skin, fair and smooth, her eyes, lined thickly in brown; her hair, left to grow out, was curled and decorated with looped chains and pins in a similar fashion to Ivador's.  Beneath her open cloak, her gold dress fell over her slender body to her calves.  There, matching stocking boots warmed her feet and legs.  It all was her...and foreign, too, rendering her a woman he knew who was not what she was.

   But it _was_ her, looking very good, and his pulse, then his heart, then his temperature all knew it.

   "Tasha," he breathed.

   It killed a little bit of him, but he did not rush over and embrace her.

   Her smile grew into her eyes as she folded back the heavy hem of her hood, revealing more of her face.  Her hair loops glinted in the scant light.  "How are you?"

   "God, _great_ , now that I see you!"

   She flinched a little and said tersely, "Richard, please be quieter."

   He looked quickly around him.  "I'm sorry," he said, closer to her volume.  "Are you not supposed to be here?"

   She shook her head, though she remained uneasy.  "No, I'm permitted to go wherever I want on the grounds.  The only reason I haven't been out is because of the weather."

   He accepted that then asked, cautiously, "How are you holding up, Tasha?  --You don't have to say, but--"

   "It's been fine," she cut in, nodding quickly when he caught her stare again.  "Really, Richard, I'm doing all right.  It was an adjustment, and I've had a lot of letting go to do, but...  It's been well worth it, knowing you all are safe.  --Everyone _is_ all right, yes?"

   "Yeah, they've been really good through all of this, for the most part..."  He chuckled grimly to himself at his qualification.  "We have our ups and downs--adjusting, ourselves, I guess.  Ferro's still scared.  Remember?  The blonde officer in the cargo bay?"

   "What is she scared of?"

   "The situation.  A sentence of slavery and forced labor on an alien planet's shaken the best of us."

   "Is she adjusting?"

   Castillo furrowed his brow.  She hardly sounded concerned, all but brushing his statement aside.  "She was a wreck at first, but yeah, she's getting better."

   Tasha bent her head to acknowledge it.  "What about the others?"

   "I think we're coming along all right, considering.  Dacey's still mad at me.  But then, she's--"

   "Dacey?"

   "Ensign Kerr."

   She didn't look to register it in her memory, but she accepted it all the same.  "Why is she angry?"

   "She's generally hot-tempered, but I think--"

   She held her fingers up near his lips.  He shivered at the heat radiating from her.  He could smell her perfume.  "Please Richard, you're too loud."

   He sucked a quick breath and complied.  "I think I was being an ass over an issue and she just hasn't been ready to let me off the hook yet.  She's always been excitable and outspoken, though.  I guess it catches me the wrong way."

   She was quiet for a moment as her glazed eyes turned askance.  Almost mannequin-like in her posture now, her fair skin glowing in the cool sun, her hands delicately stilled before her, her very breaths almost imperceptible, Castillo could not help but gaze dumbly at her.  Finally, she blinked.  "She had broken her arm?"

   He puffed a breath of relief for her remembering.  "That was her."

   "Is she from Earth?"

   "Yeah," Castillo answered, breathing a little laugh at the irony the crew often recalled:  "Grew up on a farm.  She'd been on the Enterprise only a half year, fresh from the Academy."

   The information processed behind her eyes for several seconds before she commented, "She's very young, Richard.  She's probably frightened and feels vulnerable for the first time in her life.  You should help her."

   He'd already gone there--though it did sting to see Tasha figure out a near stranger in a few seconds.  In the same stead, it didn't surprise him at all.  How much better it would have been had Tasha been on the other side, with them...  "Yeah."

   And he realized that her voice really wasn't her own anymore, either.  While the same in tone, it was very soft and slightly inflected.  Were her contractions not complex, he would have believed she was speaking Romulan to him, which got him back to what he wanted to know. 

   "You're being treated all right, then?"

   "Maybe too much so," she said and glanced at the house for a moment.  The she looked at him again.  "I can't go anywhere past the compound without the general's company, but I don't have any need to.  Once I fell in with the Schedule and got used to what I had to do, my duties became much easier.  I don't mind it so much now."

   Castillo did not hide his astonishment.  "Glad as I am you're not suffering, you can't actually _enjoy_ what you're doing."

   "You're implying that I want to be what I've become," she coolly returned.  "And maybe you would.  I don't know you that well.  Maybe you're the kind of person to think that." 

   The crush in his chest made Castillo know how wrong he had been to say what he had.  Bending his head in apology without thinking, she gestured dismissively at him.  "I haven't been miserable," she answered at last, "but it's different...very different.  I guess it must be.  But really, Richard, I've had much more difficult times in my life; things could be much worse for me in this situation--and you as well.  I expected it would be worse.  We all were lucky to have gotten what we have."

   She was trying to put him at ease, to put him off.  Considering her dazed façade and quiet nervousness--both of which she tried to hide without success--he was certain they had been working on her.  And why wouldn't they?  They had worked diligently on her appearance; certainly, the general had specific expectations of her.  "Lucky now, maybe.  But how long do you think--"

   "Quiet... _Please_.  Richard, you're loud."

   He sighed and tried again to remain under his breath.  "How long do you expect his kindness to last, Tasha?"

   "Does it matter?" she countered.  "Richard, I made the deal to save your lives--I made a promise.  It's my duty to keep that promise honorably.  I expected to be dead when your ship went into battle like it did.  But that didn't happen and our circumstances changed, so I'm doing what I can, again, to help you.  There's nothing else I can do, nowhere for me to go, and complaining about any of what we've ended up with is useless.  So instead, I'm thankful that the general has kept his part of the agreement when he was under no obligation to make a deal in the first place.  Eventually, when the situation arises, he'll use you for barter with the Federation.  Doing it that way is honorable for him and will serve the Empire's needs.  We've agreed to be patient and wait for the right opportunity to surface."

    _Honorable for him...  We have agreed..._ The words and her tone echoed in his head alongside the other changes, both visible and palpable, and his alarm grew.  Maybe she had been psychologically manipulated, Castillo thought.  He'd heard stories of Romulan brainwashing and its many uses in the barracks.  Or maybe it was as she said and she had forced herself to adapt by aligning herself to him as she had.

   He wished they hadn't met, now.  For all he'd wanted to see her before... 

   No, he did want to see her.  Like with the crew, it wouldn't be easy, but it would be much better to have some handle on it.  So he straightened himself and asked, "What about you, Tasha?"

   She turned her face when a warm breeze poured through the garden.  Opening her eyes, she was visibly more relaxed.  Her fingers now slipped over the tiny jewels sewn into her dress.  "I'm supposed be dead, Richard."

   "What?"

   She looked at him directly, then:  For the first time since they had met there, her gaze sank into his, communicating through her fashionably lined eyes her precise meaning.  "I would be dead if I were anywhere else.  So my part in it all doesn't matter, as long as you go home someday."

   Dead?  His mind reeled, trying to understand if this was something new or something she knew before she came back with them.  Her lack of elaboration hinted at the latter, making him want to know everything and still understand what he couldn't ask about.  "Tasha..."

   "I'm all right, Richard," she reiterated.  "I am not ashamed of being a consort as much as the Empire doesn’t shame those in my position.  I’ve been able to accept what I have to do and be.  You have to accept it, too."

   He shook his head.  "I can't do that.  --Or at least you can't expect me to have any peace about it."

   She nodded with a single bow of her head, accepting his denial without complication.  But then he realized she was right to think like that, in a way.  There wasn't anything she could do about it, no way she could fight what had to happen to her to keep them alive. 

   Looking at the main building again, Tasha seemed to relax when she saw what she had apparently been expecting:  a Romulan woman of about her physical age in a dull amber frock and hood moving quickly down the mall toward them.  "Consort," said the woman, as quiet and quick as the one she addressed.  She only turned a brief glance to Castillo, the slightest acknowledgment of his presence.

   "It is time, Servant?" Tasha said softly.

   Richard furrowed his brow.  She had spoken Romulan to the woman, he could tell for the accent and formality.

   "Yes, Consort."

   "I must go," she told Castillo, turning for the house.  "We will see each other again soon, now that the weather is good."

   With that alone, Tasha left for the house, her steps more like a glide with her ornate pins, chains and loops swinging just slightly above the swish of her long gown and cloak.  A consort.  Richard was left standing much as he had every other time she had made up her mind and moved.  But was it her mind anymore?  She hardly seemed there until it was time for her to go away from him.

   She was a consort.  She knew it.  The general made her into what he wanted, and she'd necessarily made her peace with that.

   He wished he hadn't seen her--not like that.  He wished he hadn't asked her anything.  He wished.  Period.

   "Farm slave," said the Romulan woman.  One of their first lessons was to use one's base rank to address another when uncertain of or unwilling to use the individual's given name.  Not surprisingly, it felt cold and rigid, but it was in fact simply good manners there.

   "Castillo," he told her.  "House staff?"

   "Servant.  Ivador.  Consort Tasia's personal assistant."

   " _Tasia_?" he repeated.  With the long "i" and the absence of the initial "a" sound, the name struck him first as Vulcan.  Castillo had known a Vulcan named T'siah in his astrophysics course at the Academy.  But then he doubted the connection, considering the Romulans' detestation of Vulcans.  _Or maybe the general's into Vulcans, too,_ he smirked to himself.

   "The general's consort has been given leave to walk the gardens with the onset of fair weather.  While she is free to speak with any of the compound personnel, I recommend you do not engage her in conversation unless she desires it."

   "Is it dangerous?" he asked.

   "Not for her," Ivador replied.  "However, you and your block might not enjoy the repercussions of your intrusions upon her personal time.  General Tokarel and his sister Dradar have grown quite protective of her, particularly as she now carries the general's sole child."

   Castillo's heart fell out of his chest.  "What?!" he retorted.

   Ivador stepped back at his retort.

   A pair of guards sprang from the fence at her move.  "Do you require assistance, Servant?"

   "I do not," Ivador told them, bowing.  "I am unaccustomed to this human's volume."

   "You will speak respectfully to the household staff, Tevol'oc," commanded one of the guards with a matching glare.

   With everything he had, Castillo bent his head and apologized.  He did not miss, however, the look Ivador and that guard shared when he brought his head up again.  Had a million other thoughts not been flooding through his brain, he would have bothered to wonder why.

   Once they had moved off, Ivador addressed him again.  "Do not assume you are not being watched at all times.  I say this for your safety, Castillo, but not for your sake.  Consort would be despondent to know anything had happened to you or your block, particularly by your own effort."

   That bit of information, coming from the servant, was surprisingly encouraging.  "Is she okay?" he asked.  "Tell me the truth and I'll leave it at that."

   Ivador studied him before choosing to answer.  "Consort Tasia has made herself a valued member of the general's household staff, and in her honor, in her duty, as well as the underlying duty she feels she serves your block, she goes about her continuing duties without complaint.  In short, she has adapted well."

   Frowning, Castillo bent his head in acknowledgment and turned to activate his cart.  "Thanks," he said and pushed the handle. 

   Not that he had expected the whole truth out of her.  Romulans made an art of suggestion and deception.  Tevol'oc in the barracks regaled each other with stories of deceptions and trickery amongst officials they had known when they were free.  Even the guards enjoyed listening in.  And Tasha was right in the middle of all that.  He could tell in her face, in her gaze, her slight nervousness and quickness.  She was living there with the greatest deception of them all.  He could tell she wanted to tell him more, maybe about that, or maybe the truth of her situation, about what to expect when she started to grow...

   Castillo blew a breath and stormed across the mall with his load.  Passing through the gate to the farm compound, he shouldered past Churbok and came upon Innivra and Mika, who likewise were on their way to the harvest storage. 

   "We saw you talking to her," Mika said hopefully.  "How is she?"

   "Pregnant," Castillo snapped and continued across the court, leaving them frozen behind him.

* * *

  


   The summer grew.  The shurrat flowered, the he'gurr rooted and the tilling allowed the freej and koga'narch to be planted.  Castillo and his block were among the others in those fields, weeding, tending, picking and hauling, just another block of tevol'oc in another general's compound, far from where they wanted to be but making their time matter.

   It was not terrible work.  The Rul'siat weather remained relatively cool throughout the season, and the hottest sun was still not strong enough to burn.  It kept them all relatively pale, but their moods improved.  The Romulan summer provided more than enough nutrients, too, to improve their general health.  Ferro, Sharesh and Adamson all had been treated for vitamin deficiency in their first couple of months there.  Hajat had in fact recommended Badock, who was still in the delicate process of reassigning the blocks, to assign their block outside for the duration of the growing and harvest season, giving her time to derive proper supplements for them.  Relieved, Badock quickly made the request and was able to re-sort the slaves that Jovvok had amused himself to throw into disorder. 

   Indeed, they learned from Roju and Agoros in an aside between shifts that Jovvok had a talent for brewing hard feelings in the barracks, turning blocks against each other then inflicting punishment when tempers exploded.  That Castillo's block was from the Federation was incidental, apparently.  On the other hand, one of Badock's many talents was to undo the reassignments and defuse the tension.

   To his surprise, Castillo came to prefer the time outside.  Though his fingers and palms were deeper orange than ever and his shoulders ached after hours bending over shurrat bushes and irrahk'ah vines, the air and the warmth were good.  The sharp but sweet smell of the shurrat flowers seemed almost as intoxicating as its wine would be; mixed with the soft brown earth's cedar-like aroma, he could almost lie in the irrahk'ah mulch and sleep away the day.  But then there was the delicious view to captivate the eye, green and amber rising in peaks all around them, and the buzz of pollinating insects, their dancing patterns inside the blooms rising and falling in strange music. 

   He also came to know a few of the hawks.  With more light, he could see they were slim and cream-colored with long, wide wings, fit for constantly gliding and circling in the cream-colored sky.  The farm complex hosted a family of five, two adults and three younger, each a different size.  They rarely flew as a flock, but rather dived and drifted without apparent purpose until prey was found, at which point they formed a tight circle in the air and descended together.  They made for bittersweet companions.

   He missed Hannev and everything on it, but he also understood the Romulans' adoration of their world.

   But again, he enjoyed it in what ways he could, allowing himself the rare and steady pleasure, as did the other crew.  Gradually, they began working and talking easily amongst one another.  Some of the tevol'oc, too, loosened up when they saw their block worked hard, kept quiet and stayed in line.  Churbok and his block remained resentful, as did many others in the barracks, but they did nothing to incite trouble, keeping their distance while maintaining a close eye as the Federation block began to import their newly learned skills into daily practice. 

   Their former tutor, Narin, was steadily busied now with Sikara's reeducation--another lesson in humility, that, each time they watched the now downcast Sikara coming from every assignment to report directly to Narin, who gave her every minute of time she could. 

   "Turn the block right only to a fifth angle," they heard Narin tell her, her hands solidly guiding the slender, youthful ones below as they manipulated an extraction hook.  "Focus as you work; now turn."

   Silently, Sikara gave the rod arm a turn at just the prescribed angle and the casing slipped off.  She flicked a smile.  "Honor in duty performed well," was all she expressed before moving on to the guts of the engine.

   But Narin tapped her hands before she could continue.  "Reassemble the unit and do it again."

   "I obey you, Narin," Sikara replied.

   Sikara did it a third time before Castillo shook himself from the view and nudged Adamson to follow him back to the tool distributor.  They said nothing.

   Sikara's "rehabilitation" was a little shaming, he had to admit.  It was hard to say whether her new outlook had improved Sikara, but she was far easier to work with now than any other of her former block.  She did not offer to help when she saw there was a need:  Rather, she simply stepped in and helped then moved away with a bow of her head and a quiet "jolan tru."  Likewise, she was letter perfect in her projection of solid, Romulan values for one of her class, almost like a khurr'oc in her simplicity of adherence.  At least Roju and Tharol agreed on this, both impressed with the young woman's improvement and how much Narin had proved herself an excellent teacher.

   Either way, Narin was occupied, so Castillo and the others learned the new procedures from Tharol and Kivos.  They too were patient and detailed teachers, though, and the block quickly came to know the routine of the day and acclimated to their work outside, the rotation of shifts and each of the plants they would tend.  They all began to relax into their duty in what little ways they could.  Everyone but Dacey.  Naturally.

   Castillo didn't even blink when Dacey grabbed the lead wires to connect to the base of the shurrat bush then fell directly into the mesh support they'd just set up. 

   "Bloody hell!" she cried.  Flipping to get herself out, the young woman only entangled herself further. 

   Castillo blew a full breath and braced himself for his revised shift.  "Damnit, Dacey, how the hell do you _do_ that?."

   Only a string of curses came back at him.

   "Hold on," Ferro said.  "I'll get the cutters."

   "We'll have to take the whole frame off!" Yang protested.

   "Fine!" Dacey shot back.  "Leave up the frame and let me rot here!  I'd rather that than listen to your whining!"

   Interrupted from his setting up the next bush frame, Adamson looked back and snorted at the sight.  "For someone who grew up on a farm, Ensign..." 

   It was already an old joke, but it still rolled off their tongues often.  Remembering Tasha's words, however, the humor was ruined for Castillo.  Seeing Dacey struggle like a fish in a shallow bucket, he was filled with equal parts of pity, shame and anger.

   "I was the bookish one, damn you!" Dacey wept, shaking her bloody fingers.  "Well, _are_ you going to get me out of this fargin' mess or are you enjoying yourselves too much?"

   Parker started into the wire first.  "Just don't move any more, okay?"

   Shamed by Parker's easiness, Castillo finally grunted and bent down, grabbing the cutters Ferro brought.  Snapping open the frame, he and Carter unwound the mesh, irrahk'ah and vine wire from Dacey's legs.  "I don't know how you manage it, either, Dacey," Castillo said trying and failing at being humorous, "when none of us have managed so much as a thorn prick."

   "Well, you're just so special, aren't you, sir!"  Freed, she whacked uselessly at her tunic and trousers, staining her hands up to her wrists as the shurrat berries popped and smeared against the knit.  "Devil take this coupin bog!"

   "Damnit, Dacey, just shut _up_!" Yang yelled.

   "Devil take you, too, Sammy, straight up the erse!"

   "Enough!" Castillo barked.

   Badock trudged up the hill and came upon them, then.  Glancing at the mess and the cursing, berry-stained tevol'oc, he looked at Castillo with unfiltered displeasure.  "What has happened this time?"

   "She was connecting the base," he explained, trying for calm outside a head about to explode, "and gravity took care of the rest."

   "How?"

   "She fell and twisted in the wires," Mika said.  "With your permission and all due respect, Badock, may I request our block be assigned again to processing?"

   "The plant is closed until we have a sufficient yield," he told her, "which will not be fulfilled if this one continues to destroy the crops."  Exhaling a slow breath, he examined the bush, the tangled netting and trellis, and then the tearful young worker. 

   Looking, too, Castillo immediately knew they'd be stringing it back together all day.  "There's nothing else she can do?"

   Badock paused.  "I will seek a solution," he told them and motioned to a nearby guard.  The guard continued on his way.  "Mika will take Dacey to Hajat for treatment then return here; Dacey will assist in food preparation until another assignment can be approved."

   Castillo resisted the urge to throttle Dacey when she turned a fresh look of horror up to the steward.  "Thank you, Badock," he said, successfully drawing attention away from the ensign.

   "There is no need to thank me for performing my duty, Castillo," Badock replied, softly enough that Castillo understood he still appreciated manners, however Human.  "My duty is my honor, as it is yours."

   Mika took the young woman away, and Castillo and Yang began to get the sprawling, half-ruined plant upright again.

   "Sooner she's put in the toxic materials plant, the better off we'll all be," Yang said, pulling the lead wire taut.

   "I said that's enough," Castillo told him.

   "Yang's got a point, though," Adamson said.  "We're being protected thanks to 'the deal,' but even that's got to have its limits."

   Despite his relentless sense of fairness, even Badock had little patience for disrespectful tevol'ok:  Many times, he had used the back of his large, dark hand to silence Romulans a head taller and visibly tougher.  When called on the unfairness of his treatment of the Federation block, Badock had merely replied, "They are ignorant creatures; you, with fine Romulan blood coursing through your veins, shame your every progenitor for shirking what you know to be right and honorable behavior."

   Badock's condescending wisdom only had temporary benefit.  With Jovvok, relatively unoccupied with the general's ship docked, and the more contentious tevol'oc remaining, there would always be a measure of danger in that place.

   "Dacey could get one of us killed," Adamson finished.

   "If her clumsiness doesn't do it, her mouth will," Yang added.

   "Maybe Jovvok will reassign her, too, give us all a break."

   "I said that's enough!"  Castillo glared at both of them, catching a glance at the same-named Jovvok, patrolling nearby.  He didn't want to broadcast any more information, and so bent toward his work for a moment, waiting.  It didn't look like the centurion had noticed, so, more quietly, he continued, "I don't like her attitude, either, but she's a part of our team, Lon."

   "Not according to her," Yang countered.  "She was the first one to--"

   "She's a junior officer on our crew and she's in this mess with us.  I thought we already got this cleared up, but obviously you need more help than I did understanding that you don't throw someone away just because they're not handling things the way we'd like or even if they're just difficult--and especially when we're all that's left of our ship!"

   Yang started at the point; Adamson froze.

   "We are _all that is left_ ," he pressed.

   Finished with his point, Castillo got back to the trellis and enjoying--with great effort that time--the sun and the activity.

   It was not the first time he'd had to come down on them--not the first time he'd had to remember that, too--and he had to wonder why he had ever entertained the idea of promotion.  Without question, their imprisonment was making it that much worse, but lately, commanding that "block" seemed to take a pound of flesh from him on a daily basis.  A whole ship full of personality clashes could be nothing but a nightmare for any XO, and he forced himself to be thankful he didn't have that and likely never would. 

   With that mixed blessing, he got back to work and tore into the tangle that their youngest crewperson had left behind.

   Indeed, there was much relief in the fields, even on days like that, the bad days--trainwreck days, as Ferro called them.  The insult of being a slave to the Romulans would never fade; the worry of their ever leaving that world and seeing their families again was ever present, but the work was strangely relieving to his nerves no matter how the day had been going.  It helped him let go and put his focus on something solely before him.  The freedom to talk and hear others talking about one matter or another, too, relieved his reactions to what now was almost a daily experience, one shuti after midday, strolling through the garden, warm but distant.

   And every time he felt his heart sink at the sight of her, he wondered why he couldn't get over it.

   Throughout the growing season, she looked little different from when they had spoken early in the spring, but as the days quickly drew to the peak of length, the fruit ripened and their work was busy and good, the consort called Tasia came from the patio door on the long side of the house with a noticeable bulge in her midsection.  Fair and elegantly attired despite the time of day, she walked as though she were thinking specifically to put one foot in front of the other; her gaze, while not void of expression, had a dreaminess about it that Castillo could see across the mall.  She hardly seemed "there."

   Summer seemed hardly there, too, for just as it seemed to be reaching a true, summery state and the brightness seemed eerily endless, it began to fade.  Production on the farm kicked up and even the most wayward tevol'oc seemed unbreakable from their daily picking, staking, hauling and packing.  And then the full shurrat harvest came, and shifts rotated through the night--three on, three off or on second shift duty for ten days.

   Castillo was sure his whole body was stained orange by the end of it.

   Soon after the last berries ripened, the Rul'siat autumn approached.  Their cloaks and thick socks came into more use in the early and late parts of the day.  At the start of the fourth of five seasons, vines were picked of their last precious fruit, the cold crops were set in, and on occasion, on her way back in, Tasia would cross the mall to speak with Badock or to Emidas.  She talked easily to them, sometimes at length, even pleasantly, and always in Romulan, which came off her tongue with frightening fluency.  If Castillo stood near the fence, she would make an effort to speak with him, too, and always in inflected Standard.  It was usually but to assess their condition.  Only rarely did they speak on other matters anymore.  Only rarely did he think she was actually there with him.

   "You look tired, Tasha," Castillo commented one chill day, trying for kindness when his fantasies of throttling General Tokarel swam viciously in his head.  Despite her daily walks, her skin had grown almost transparent, and she seemed fragile in all her movements.  Her voice sounded hollow; her midsection looked too large for her legs and feet.  "Are you able to rest all right?"

   "I look forward to the end of this," she admitted.  "I'm tired of the treatments."

   This was news.  "Treatments?"

   "It's a Romulan child," she said.  "I undergo treatments to control the blood poisoning while ensuring the fetus’ health."

   "Is it uncomfortable?" Castillo asked.

   Her face went unchanged, but her eyes flicked.  "I look forward to the end of this," she reiterated and turned to walk away--without a goodbye, as always, without looking back.  A flick of her hand signaled Ivador when she crossed the mall.  The servant came and took her cloak when she got to the door.

   As he often did anymore, he wished he'd missed her that day.

* * *

  


   "Roosts," Castillo said blandly, staring up at a teary-eyed Dacey from the end of his bunk.  "You're...working with birds?"

   "It was the only thing Badock could find outside of scraping muck," she told him, shamefaced.  "I'm a pure incurable haddie at this sort of work, sir, but he promises me I shouldn't muck the eggs--and it's not dirty, just loud.  I can do loud.  _I'm_ loud--likely louder."  She'd chuckled a little as she said it, but the humor died only seconds later.

   "Then what's your problem this time?"

   "I have to work there alone," she said.  Looking quickly around, she lowered herself to sit next to her commanding officer--or at least she had been the only one not to drop the formalities with him.  Much as she would not bear being called by her rank, she still acknowledged his most of the time.  "I'm afraid to be alone.  --God, _please_ don't tell those others, sir.  Yang should hang on me about it.  But I keep thinking that if I'm alone, I don't have anyone there to check me, and it'll open me up to...oh hell, I don't know.  I won't feel safe.  I..."  She sniffled hard and wiped hastily at her tears, looking around again.  Then she huffed and frowned.  "I don't know why I'm making a kerfuffle--why I ever had.  There's not a thing you can do about anything here."

   "Maybe you just need an ear," Castillo offered.

   "I need a bloody ship and you to fly us the hell away from here, sir!" she rebounded.

   He laughed.  "Yeah, that'd be nice."

   She laughed as well, but stopped as quickly as before.  She got to her feet.  "Thank you, sir," she said and moved across to her bunk and the waiting gear she had been supplied.  She grabbed it quickly, slinging it over her arm.  "I'd best be off, then.  --But which tongue shall I play today?  Guess I'll need a brain teaser for this sort of work."

   The remnant of his grin strengthened a bit to hear the question.  "You're still doing that?"

   "Keeps me from going doolally," she told him over her shoulder.

   "Going what?"

   "A fair bit of what I've been already, sir!" she said, playing up her native accent with a comic roll of her eyes.

   "Think Klingons's out, too?"  He chuckled at her responsive look.  "Know any Andorian?"

   "I'm lousy at it," she replied smartly, "but that's right good work for me.  Thank you, sir."

   On her way out, she gave Mika's arm a squeeze and Yang's arm a punch then disappeared into the corridor to meet Dorin, who would orient her.

   Castillo shrugged at Mika's curious smile.  "Egg collecting.  She'll get by.  It can't be worse than the fields."

   Or maybe not.

   Dacey's post-shift routine soon after starting was coming straight into the barracks and burying her head under her pillow until the meal alert sounded, where she ate with stunning silence, though her response of "Avorrok toh!" soon matched every other Romulan's when they greeted the morning sun. 

   "Tharol's been on me about it for a while," she told them, terse and quick, maybe a little embarrassed to have to explain it.  "It's a fine practice.  Starts the day right."

   Soon, Ferro began to follow her out, learning the cycles.  The two women sat on the side soon before the chant began, and Dacey walked her through it without distraction, holding Ferro's hands to lead her through it before bringing her into her row beside Narin and Sikara.  Within a few weeks, Ferro had a good hold of it, and she even seemed anxious to finish breakfast and join the others every morning.

   "What do you get out of it, Sandra?" Sharesh asked her one night after their last meal.  His feet liberated from his sandals, he reclined on his bed, his long, dark feet propped up on his headboard, his arms stretched overhead.

   Sitting on the floor beside her bunk to stretch her legs, Ferro shrugged.  "I don't know.  But it's pretty powerful when you're in the middle of it.  You can barely hear yourself around all the other voices, and you feel the rhythm of it in your chest."  She bent down, touching her forehead to the cement next to her knee.  Holding herself there for several seconds, she slowly rose and looked over to see him still curious.  "Dacey calls it relaxing in afterthought, and its message strikes home when you start thinking about it from your perspective.  In an odd way, it's...centering."  She laughed quietly.  "And hard to explain.  But I enjoy it."

   "Good someone's having fun," Yang muttered.  He was still picking pod seeds out of his short fingernails.

   "If it is, Lon, I have it because I choose to," Ferro responded.  "Just because Dacey and I can find some comfort in this place doesn't mean you should try to bring us down because you have none.  --Or maybe being an ass is what's keeping you going.  Take it somewhere else."

   "And it looks like we have a replacement for Dacey."

   "No," Ferro replied coolly, bending to stretch her other leg, "you don't.  Unlike Dacey, I won't allow you to treat me like that."

   Rubbing his freshly cropped hair with his hand and kicking off his sandals, Castillo had listened to the conversation and furrowed his brow at that point.  His first response went unvoiced, and then it was negated when he thought about it.  Through that alien community, Ferro was growing a pretty firm spine, and Dacey was acquiring some thoughtfulness, and that _was_ something he would never deny them, if it helped them at all.

   He hadn't always been sure about Dacey, though.  She denied any difficulty in her assignment, but clearly, she was bothered by it.  Instead of complaining, however, she began to distance herself a little.  She told Mika that she didn’t want to trouble them as she had anymore.  However, Castillo could see how she was markedly more respectful to Badock, who had worked hard on her behalf, the assistants and all of the officers. 

   "I have yet to see such meticulous manners in one of my own, much less yours," Agoros remarked, seeming to notice Dacey all over again, as though he had not known her before.  "I wonder if she is planning for a leadership position."

   "God, no, not that!" Adamson said with mock horror. 

   "Her improvement opens the possibility," Agoros informed him.

   Castillo shook his head.  "No, he's right.  Dacey wouldn't go for something like that."

   But that left him wondering what she _was_ trying to achieve.

   Despite his curiosity, the change in her demeanor was a shameless relief to Castillo.  Aside from one incident in the barracks mess that sent her to Hajat, she was out of the way and apparently no longer in any trouble, so he didn't press her to talk about it.  Like every other time, he was certain he'd hear about it if she couldn't cope.

* * *

  


   The autumn was now fully set in, with cold winds churning under the waning sun and warmth.  The summer's flora died away; oranges faded to olive, the indoor lights became brighter, and the world felt like it was closing in on their first advent to winter there. 

   Kivos, Dacey and Ferro had begun showing Sharesh the ropes in the morning chant under the artificial torchlight in the court, and Mika took to watching it.  Innivra and Parker went to school with several other tevol'oc on the new irrigation systems to be installed over the winter.  Castillo, Yang and Adamson, already lean from the fields, were busy in the packing houses on most days.  They all scoffed that the Academy needed to add farm work to its physical fitness regimen.  They all had grown remarkably fit, though they'd all been in good shape to begin with. 

   Meanwhile, Dacey's routine lasted.  In fact, Castillo hardly saw her anymore after the morning meal and chant.  The roosts had proven busy enough work for her that she came from it every day tired and circumspect, with none of her usual chatter to interrupt the new calm.

   Interestingly, when Badock was given leave to visit his home village and his family, also in service, she disappeared directly after first meal, skipping the chant and all order of pleasantries.  The start of her shift preceded theirs, but now she was early for even that.

   Badock's granted holiday was apparently an extraordinary gesture from General Tokarel in thanks for the khurr'oc's excellent service to the general, his compound and the Empire.  To the farm staff's great disdain, however, Jovvok was assigned the duty of looking over the slave and general farm staff.  The mood of the entire compound changed to moment Badock exited the gates for the transport cruiser.  Gone were the chatter and the random wandering during the free time in the evening.  Gone was Emidas' checking in on each block and staying to talk for a few minutes, and evaporated were any eye contact between laborers and diversions between bushes, pods or roots.  People just waited for Badock to return and hoped it would happen without too much incident.

   Though not even a year yet, Castillo had been there for long enough to know that wasn't likely.

   He knew the truth of it the very morning Jovvok, without Dacey there to taunt--he enjoyed standing over the nervous tevol'oc, and she was no exception--diverted himself by reassigning Castillo, Yang and Adamson to scraping out the produce holding rooms.  He made the switch with a few words and a gesture, and without permitting them leave to acquire proper gear from supply.  Castillo's attempt to remind him about needing gloves and leg guards was met with a disruptor pistol pressed against the bridge of his nose.

   "You will perform the duty you are assigned, Farm Slave," Jovvok growled.

   Castillo's morning grew worse from there.  Already agreed to just play it safe and take it slow and easy, they moved around the large building with their scrapers, following Castillo, who found and marked out places needing attention.  It was boring work, and they were rubbing their necks after little time for having to walk bent over for much of the time.

   "Looks okay in here," Adamson said.  "Pretty clean."

   Castillo nodded.  Koga narchog wasn't a messy crop.  Grasses packed in tight bundles and pressed into shipping crates, they would be processed on the southern continent and served heartily in the capital.  They'd eaten koga narchog, in fact.  It was like a piquant rice noodle with a seaweed texture.  Not bad, but not anything he'd be addicted to.  In any case, it was easy to pack, so the holding rooms shone in the overhead lights, and Castillo's marker found little to disturb it.  Still, he'd be the last to ignore his tightening gut.  "Be careful, anyway," he told the others.

   Coming around into the last of the rows of crates in that hold to ship that day, Castillo marked out some oil spillage, marked it out and moved onto the next slat.  Kicking the crates first to make sure nothing was behind it, Yang and Adamson checked it with their own light beam then bent to grab its moving brackets.  With one decisive yank, the crates shifted and Yang grunted. 

   "Yeah, there's a lot of it back here," he said.  "It dripped under the slat."

   "Want to move it out more?" Adamson asked.

   "Yeah."

   "Be careful," Castillo told them over his shoulder.

   They lifted the crates again, and it creaked at the center. 

   "Is that stable?" Yang asked, peering around at the noise.

   Suddenly, a vebiiad sprang from that inner crevice.  It shot into the air at Yang and clamped onto his forearm. 

   "God damn!" Yang cried out, reeling.

   His end of the crate smashed to the floor before Adamson knew to release his handle, spilling a gross of koga root balls across the floor.  "Hey!"

   "Get it off!  Get if off me!"

   Adamson saw it a split second later.  "Damnit, it's got him!"

   "Get it off!  It's killing me!  Get--agh!"

   "Castillo!"

   Castillo lunged toward the two as the vibiiad tore at Yang's flesh with dizzying efficiency and a sharp cry of victory to dig its teeth more deeply.  Yang screamed, dropping to his knees and arching with agony.  Using all he had, Castillo whacked the rat-like creature off with his marking bar and finally grabbed it by its flailing tail to hurl it across the floor.  It smacked the opposite wall with a grunt.

   "Get it!  Saul!  There!"

   Spinning around, Adamson grabbed a mallet before the creature could recover and smashed it dead.  Its venomous brown blood sprayed around it but he jumped back before it could touch him.  Dropping the mallet, Adamson bent over, hands on knees, and let out a deep breath.

   Yang fell onto his side a moment later, with eyes bulging with shock, and the men realized in full what was going on.  Dragging their friend out into the rear court, Castillo yelled for a guard, who alerted Jovvok.  Bothered from whatever else he had been doing, the centurion glanced at the wound and gestured with his chin to the door.

   "Take him to your block's bunk.  Antidote must be ordered."

   Yang clenched his teeth for want to scream.  "Hajat has it...in...o--office!"

   "None remains," Jovvok slowly informed him, and Castillo watched his eyes brighten briefly to watch Yang's alarm double.  They knew from many stories about other prisoners' bites what was to come.

   Castillo clamped his fists into rock-hard balls.  It took everything he had to not get himself killed for tearing Jovvok's eyeballs out.  The centurion really knew how to enjoy himself.  "We'll handle it," he said tightly and took Yang's good arm over his shoulder to carry him back to their bunkroom.

   Innivra and Dacey spent that night holding Yang down to the bunk while he writhed and jerked in agony until the venom spread enough that he finally lost his strength.  Rather than move away or dare sleep, Dacey instead moved back and forth from the washroom with towels and water and oil for the wound until Innivra woke up. 

   "You need me to take over for a while?" Castillo asked her groggily, though in truth he hadn't slept much at all, both for worry and for the strangled noises coming from Yang's bunk.

   "No," Dacey said quietly as she passed with a pile of cloths in her fingers.  Her eyes were wide open and her face was set with ghostly determination.  "Go back to sleep, sir."

   That was all.  Castillo watched her for some time after until he nodded again.  When the waking alert sounded, he rolled over to see Dacey still tending Yang's injury.  At some point, she had showered and changed into the fresh clothing they had been provided the night before; otherwise, she looked as though she hadn't stopped all night--and she didn't stop for the waking call, either.  Only after Innivra had taken his breakfast did she give it up to attend to her assignment, promising she would return after mid-shift.

   "I hope there will be a reason for you to," Innivra quietly replied.

   Dacey bent her head with a sigh, and then spun for the door.  There, she said, "I could stay, if you need.  They can assign someone else for me today."

   "No," Innivra said, "we shouldn't disrupt any more than we have.  Sandra, Castillo and I can handle things this morning.  Come back after the mid-shift rotation and take over then."

   She nodded shortly and left.

   Soon after, Castillo decided to talk to Jovvok and ask him to hurry up with the medicine.  It was akin to sticking his head in the lion's mouth, but it was better than watching Yang suffer and turn slowly from a hale, tan standard to a pale green invalid, twitching with growing internal rot.

   At last, after Yang had blessedly lost consciousness and Castillo had gone to find Jovvok, Emidas, just back from a protocol forum, had been enlightened to the situation by Kivos and Narin.  Finding him and taking him back to the bunkroom to see for herself, she stilled when Castillo relayed the order of events and reported the absence of anti-venom.

   "I will need to consult with..."  Emidas paused, drawing a slow breath.  "This is a difficult protocol to maneuver.  Wait in the court and I will bring you an answer as soon as I am able.  Do not deviate from this order.  I will try to be quick."

   With another look at the patient, Emidas' slight form disappeared through the door, leaving Castillo to watch one half of his crew, such as they were, busy themselves as best they could.  He knew his pessimism was well-placed that time.  Jovvok wasn't doing anything--or at least nothing very quickly, and Emidas would very well be subject to his orders.  No, Yang was a dead man.  His friend and crewmate was going to die.  Castillo closed his eyes and left for the court despite it.

   There, he waited through the morning--long, chilled, boring hours during which Emidas sent orders for him to busy himself with raking the stones and cleaning out dead grasses.  The bleak work matched his mood, and Mika's, too, when she came from the plant at quarter-shift.  Coming near, she looked at him, her deep green eyes unblinking, not wanting to say anything but saying it all.  Her lips parted to speak, then, but she could only release a sigh, a puff of fog floating lifelessly in the still air; then she closed her mouth again.  Castillo handed her a rake. 

   A cry sounded above and they both looked toward it.  Four of the five local hawks moved overhead, one parent and three younglings, off to the high peaks, it seemed.  They disappeared, and Castillo and Mika's eyes met again.

   "I just hope that's not a sign," Castillo muttered and stabbed another tuft of weed grass with his driver.

   Mika sighed and nodded.  "There's another three shuti before mid-shift.  Why don't I help you finish this up for now?"  Patting his arm, she took the rake to work on the upper court.

   The first-shift came and went along with the other farm staff, who moved around the Federation block without words or prodding.  By then, word had gotten around a few times.  They all knew why the two had been relieved of their shifts that day.  They all knew Jovvok was in charge of the barracks and labs, and therefore Yang would soon need to be replaced.  Their responding silence toward Castillo and Mika then was the closest some of the others had come to sympathy since they got there, and yet he'd give it back in a heartbeat and deal with twice the contention if he thought he could undo what had been done.

   As mid-shift approached without sign of Emidas, their growing despondency might well have worsened still were it not for Tasha's usual excellent timing providing a slightly less grim reminder of their situation.

   "Where is Castillo?" came her soft voice in the middle of the pall, and he sighed.  Her voice still managed to make his heart thrum and ache at the same time.  "Is he assigned?"

   "No, ma'am, he's just over...  Castillo!"

   He came around the corner of the building as Tasha finished blinking at Mika's call.  When he let himself think about it, he couldn't imagine how they'd made a battle-tested officer so sensitive to sound.  By her suggestions, he knew she had never divulged what or where she had been, but they'd still managed to tap into her psyche and change her.  But then, they were Romulans.  Of course, they had worked on her, probably from day one, to make her think and act the way they wanted.  He'd heard stories from the other tevol'oc about the tactics their military used.  He knew what they had done to her....

   As usual, he braced himself before nearing her.  Each time he saw her, she looked bigger, less comfortable and overall less like the Tasha he'd fallen so hard for, that firm, pretty officer with more courage in her pinkie finger than the whole quadrant could boast.  Rather, what became of her was dressed, made up and primped to perfection just to walk the garden; the pregnancy made her formality more ridiculous still. 

   He sighed tightly.  She obviously was not in the garden now, and she did want to see him, but she was obviously not what he needed to be concerned with--or at least she wasn't the distraction he'd wanted.  So he hedged, "Sorry, I can't talk today.  I'm waiting for Emidas."

   "I have come to see her, too.  Why are you waiting here for her?"

   "We're waiting for her help on something."

   Her eyes flicked over his face then passed steadily between him and Mika, who attracted her attention a few seconds longer.  So she asked her, "What happened?"

   "Yang was bitten by a vibiiad," Mika said.  "We're waiting for a treatment."

   She was properly alert upon receiving this information.  She looked at Castillo again.  "Hajat is getting the antidote?"

   "No," he answered.  "She's--"

   "Hajat knows about this?" Tasha pressed.

   "She's been in the capital for a seminar," Castillo told her, suddenly interested to see her so alert.  It had been a long time since last he'd seen anything near it in her.  "Jovvok's been finding the medicine Yang needs--and Emidas is looking for someone who can speed it up."

   The general's consort signaled a nearby principal.  "Guard," she said in Romulan, "bring Staff Aide to give me access to that tevol'oc's block section."  Not a minute later, Deviar had come and accessed the gate for her.  "Take me to Yang," she quietly ordered.  "These of the Federation block will accompany us."  Picking up the length of her cloak and gesturing to Deviar to lead the way, she followed Mika into the barracks and through the mess to the blocks.

   To Castillo's surprise, the other complex slaves, seeing her, moved immediately out of the way.  Though curiously peering after her, they did not interfere.  Even Jovvok, coming in from the maintenance room, did not stop her.  However, he did ask her if the general knew of her whereabouts.

   She did not answer him.

   Following Mika to their block and going in, she found Innivra right where Castillo had left him, hovering over Yang, who lay unconscious on his bunk.  The tall, heartily muscled man had been stripped to his shorts, and his exposed skin looked already in the process of decomposition:  It had leached in the last hours to a sickly yellow-green and was coated with a waxy sheen of perspiration.  Tharol had brought more cloth rolls to wet and pack around him to control his temperature--the duty Dacey had taken on the night before.  Having replaced her, Ferro had just applied a fresh set; she had just picked up the bucket of hot cloths to take to the sink.

   Tasha took in the details for a couple of seconds.  Unhooking her cloak, it dropped behind her and into the able hands of her servant, Ivador, who had slipped silently in behind her.  Tasha moved to the bedside to examine Yang herself, easing a stunned Ferro away with a touch.  Looking at the wound on his arm with careful, delicate fingers, Tasha's lips pursed.

   When he came into the room, Jovvok repeated his terse request:  "Does General Tokarel know that you have brought yourself into the slave barracks without pass?"

   "What General Tokarel knows should be none of your concern," she replied coldly, "though it will become concerning soon for _you_.  Why is Yang's injury festering?"

   "I have only just learned of the injury when his group did not report," Jovvok told her.

   "Shavvis!" she hissed, her tone amazingly venomous in its softness.  "This wound is old."  She glanced at Ivador.  "Servant, alert Dradar and send for Prarl."  She turned her glare up to Jovvok then glanced at Deviar.  "Aide, inform General Tokarel of my location and purpose--immediately."

   Ivador and Deviar rushed from the room and through the mess.  The section door hit the opposite wall as they passed through it.

   Turning back to Yang's gangrenous form, Tasha did not bother glancing at Jovvok again while promising, "I would have you branded before your peers would I be your judge."

   To their further surprise, Jovvok backed quickly out of the room and did not return.

   "Innivra," she then quietly commanded, "bring me water."

   The man did as asked.

   Supplied, Tasha proceeded to clean Yang's wound anew, her jewelry tinkling in the dead silence around her.  She did not bother to break it with useless comments or unnecessary movements.  The scent of her perfume soon filled the air, a haunting remnant of orange and clove, it seemed.  Castillo's head pounded with every breath of it.

   "What's going to happen?" Ferro finally asked her.

   "It will not be much longer," Tasha whispered, and nothing more.

   The couple of minutes that passed upon her last words felt longer than her promise.  Ferro remained at the end corner of the bed, Innivra at the other side.  Castillo's eyes remained pinned on Tasha's profile, still as a portrait as she took her turn cleansing the wound.  Despite his jumping pulse, he could not rip his eyes away from her. 

   Just as he thought to ask her something or offer to help, General Tokarel stormed into the room, nearly tearing the door out of the wall and making them all but Tasha jump.  "Tasia!" he breathed, seeing his heavily pregnant consort calmly pressing salve into the other human's wound.  Waving the others back with a sweep of his hand--they all moved quickly away from it like the parting of a sea--he crossed the block in three strides, knelt beside his woman and removed the thin cloth she had applied.

   "This wound is a day old and remains untreated," he observed.  "How can this be, Consort?"

   "Centurion Jovvok claims to have been ignorant of the incident," Tasha told him quietly, "but upon learning of it assigned a portion of the Federation block to watch over their injured man until treatment could be found."

   "Tevol'oc merely required anti-venom.  It is in ready supply in Physician's office."

"Yes, General."

   "And for what reason would this man be injured?  Appropriate gear is likewise in ready supply."

   "That I cannot answer," Tasha replied.

   Their eyes met and he understood utterly.  She did not ask him for anything, but waited for him to either agree or disagree with a patience and stillness that was not unlike Tasha Yar's, but completely without any expectation of control over the situation.  Assertive as she had been with Jovvok, she gave it all away for Tokarel, still hardly aware of the curious, slightly horrified looks on the Starfleet crew's faces, nor of Castillo, who could hardly breathe to hear her soft voice, see her plain expression, smell her heavy perfume.  She continued gazing at the general, waiting for his judgment.

   Castillo now had no doubt about where Tasha's mind had been all that time:  It was with Tokarel.  But more disturbing was that Tokarel seemed as attuned to her as he watched her slightest movements, reading her and apparently pleased with what he found there.

   She belonged to him, and he made use of it.

   Castillo felt his chest crushing inside, but he was getting used to that.

   Breaking his hold of her attention, the general pressed the cloth to Yang's wound then plucked up another cloth to clean his consort's hand.  "First, we shall see if Tevol'oc will survive," he told her as he worked.  "He will be transported to the regional clinic for treatment and returned here.  Meanwhile, I will make inquiries of the farm staff and guards.  Then I will decide which justice Centurion Jovvok deserves."  With a gesture Ferro's way, she came closer and he set the cloth into it.  Then he took Tasha's fingers into his own and helped her to stand.  "But there will be justice.  I honor my word, as you have honored yours, Consort."

   Her gaze did not waver from his.  "Yes, General."

* * *

  


   The next high sun, they all were summoned from the barracks just after morning meal to come to the compound mall.  Collecting themselves, getting Yang into the hoverseat that was brought for him, Castillo and his block moved outside. 

   There, Kimolg, the elderly steward of the general's house, came through the crowd, his pale, creased face set with stately sobriety.  Facing the Federation block, Kimolg gestured then led them to stand in front of the other tevol'oc, directly across from the general, his sister and the household staff--Tasha included--who all stood opposite one the mall.  The weather was cool but excellent, so there was at first an air of impatience amongst the tevol'oc workers, who shuffled and quietly swore to themselves.  They wanted to do their work under the precious, short daylight and refreshing warmth, not stand on ceremony, even if it was a rare event and they were curious to know what it was all about.  There would be but a few more days like that until spring, the others had promised. 

   However, the sight of Centurion Jovvok quickly made them forget they had anything better to do.

   Before that informal assembly, two officers pushed Jovvok into the mall.  Held by a neck cuff, which in turn was held at the spine by a long rod of varying flexibility, the officer could be yanked around like a marionette with a simple jerk of the control arm.  In a show of great fortitude, his stony face reflected nothing when his uniform and underclothes were forcefully removed and he was turned toward the crowd--to one part of the audience in particular:  The center of the front row sat Yang with Innivra and Dacey flanking him. 

   Yang was shrunken and weak, and from that time forward, his duties would be light, but his prognosis was otherwise good.  Obviously the general asked that Jovvok would see that, because the guards held him in full view of the Federation block for nearly a minute.  Then, moving him around, certain that every slave, officer and house staff member had likewise viewed the disgraced officer, General Tokarel stepped forward.  He wore his full uniform: crisp black, gold and red with shingled shoulder boards on his well-decorated coat and black, block-toed boots.

   "Centurion Jovvok," he began, his deep voice just loud enough to carry, "you have been found guilty of treason:  You have betrayed my orders for personal pleasure, neglected your duties and attempted to discredit my intelligence.  You have endangered the issue of my house, potentially robbed me of valuable property and threatened to bring dishonor to my name."  The charges stated, Tokarel stepped before the young man.  "I am most ashamed to know your family; I schooled with your mother, who bore you from her womb and nursed you when your father died with great honor at the Battle of Devoras.  The pride I felt to bring you among my household was naught but shame when I was forced, in my duty, to inform your mother of your crimes against me.  In _her_ shame, she has forsaken you and left you entirely to my judgment."

   Jovvok's head bent as Castillo's eyes widened.  His first thought about those charges was that it shouldn't have been too surprising, coming from a Romulan.  His months there among the other staff and long talks with Kivos at the gate had taught him a great deal about what "ranked Romulans" practiced in their culture.  Suspicious, proud and conceited as a rule, Romulans of rank and class were encouraged to be cunning and to get ahead in what ways they were socially permitted, including deceit, violence, conspiracy and even poisoning enemies.

   Slaves, in fact, were Romulans living almost in a world within the Romulan world.  Their rules amongst each other and certainly amongst those they served were markedly different.  Their subservience required and infractions payable by painful death, deceit, ambition and warlike behavior were quickly trained out of the slave caste, even from tevol'oc who might be freed later--part of the reason few actively sought freedom.  According to Emidas, they relearned the ways of "free citizens" or simply did not mix with regular society.  Difficult slaves did not exist for long or ended up beaten, humiliated and reeducated like Sikara, thus Dacey's quick removal and relative isolation, lest the general's word be embarrassed. 

   Perhaps the threat to the general's honor was what had made up the general's mind.  Either way, the son of an old friend was in serious danger of being killed on the spot for neglecting to protect and report the injury of one of his human tevol'oc.

   The Gollug block was really going to give them hell now.

   "What shall you choose now, Jovvok?" the general demanded.

   "Death," Jovvok responded immediately.

   "You would rather avoid the dishonor with which you must now live?"

   "Yes, General."

   Tokarel came very close to his face, leveling his stare and his tone when he replied, "You may not have it by my hand.  _Any_ death you enjoy shall be that of a coward."

   In an instant, the general's fist swung around and struck the younger man's face.  Blood spurted in the wake of the strike like a spray of grass from a clipper, just a half circle as he remained held up by the rod.  Stepping around, Tokarel swung again. 

   "Let him fall," he commanded and the rod was released from the cuff.  Jovvok fell to his knees immediately and at just the right angle for the general to swing his boot deftly into Jovvok's midsection, cracking his ribs and throwing him briefly off the ground.  Another pool of green sludged over his teeth as he struggled to remain on his hands and knees.  The victim groaned, unable to beg, even if he would.  It was hard to tell by his expression, already indistinguishable.  Tokarel motioned the officers to pick Jovvok up again.  The rod, reactivated, snatched up the connector in the cuff and Jovvok in turn.  He could barely stand on his own.  The general struck him twice more, breaking bones each time; then he cracked Jovvok's jaw on the backswing, finally forcing a cry from his victim.

   Pausing at that, Tokarel wiped his hands on a kerchief, slid off his uniform coat and calmly handed it to his ready steward.

   Castillo felt sick inside.  This wasn't going to end soon.

   Casting his eyes away as the beating continued in the otherwise deathly silence, he glanced across the mall at the general's sister, standing tall and elegant as ever in a silver and violet gown and rope-braided black hair.  Tasha was beside her, but he could not see her for the guards holding the rod.

   Meanwhile, the general continued to show them all that Jovvok did not have the corner on ferocity, save that his treatment held no enjoyment.  It seemed but an exercise to him, an example to make of a man a third his age.  When at last he seemed to grow bored with the disciplining, Tokarel pulled the kerchief from his trouser pocket and cleaned his hands.  Then he motioned to the house physician.  "Make him conscious again--but do not assuage his pain entirely.  He will suffer and yet hear my words clearly."

   Prarl immediately went to it, medical regenerator in hands.  Not a person uttered a word.  Even Dacey, hard-eyed and clutching the handles of Yang's hoverseat, hardly breathed to see the damage the general had inflicted during those minutes.

   When the man was conscious enough again to understand him and he was pulled into a seated sprawl, Tokarel, pulling on his coat, spoke again.  "The word of your leader is your honor," he stated, "and _our_ honor is all of the Empire's.  When you obey my word, you obey the will of the Romulan Empire. 

   "You will know my word as your guide, in life and to the death.  Your _life_ is _mine_ ; I give your commands and you honor _me_ when you serve me, and thus serve the Empire.  I will tolerate no deviations from this and my stated purpose.  In your disgrace, Jovvok, son of Sarrog, I hereby strip you of rank and privilege; you hereby are a listed tevol'oc, assigned to gate attendance, where you will watch from your knees your former comrades relish their freedom for having been dutiful to my wishes.  A single incident and I will repeat your punishment today in the capital on the Senate steps before all your instructors and relations."

   A gasp at last sounded from the crowd.  It seemed to Castillo that the only one _not_ to shudder at the promise was Tasha, who now was in full view.  Standing straight as she could with her dress wrapped around the mass in her midsection and chains hanging about her finely styled hair, her gaze steady on the view, she seemed as indignant as the man she serviced.  If offered, she may well have taken her own turn at Jovvok.

   But that wasn't her place.  That wasn't what a woman of her rank did.  She did not so much as twitch with temptation, but remained properly inert.

   Castillo blinked to kill the sting in his eyes.

   She was Tokarel's property now, and however it had come about or how she really felt about it, she _had_ accepted that; she had without a doubt become what the general wanted.  She served him, and thus the Empire, as the general desired.  She was dutiful.  She was honorable.

   And again, she was right:  He had to accept it.

   He'd known it before, but now...

   Now, he never thought he would hate his life as he did just then, and hate it probably more than Jovvok did, even then.

* * *

  


   The year on Romulus was a long one, and the warning of autumn should have prepared them, but still that region's darkness returning as it did was a surprise.  Almost overnight, autumnal flora and roots sprouts turned down and leaves on deciduous trees grayed with frost; the shurrat had one last great burst of production with a brief flush of warmth preceding a deep dip in the temperature.  With that, the important business of trimming and tying began.  The general's heavy consort disappeared after the first ice storm, which came early that year, according to Kivos, who likewise promised a long, bitter season.

   Castillo could hardly wait.

   By his count, on their three hundred and fifteenth day in captivity, there was a great rushing around at the gate, and then a long form in a grand, cocoa brown cloak with heavy gold trim followed by a smaller woman.  Within the brown cloak was a round, olive-skinned face with eyes that shone like bronze, a fully developed brow arch and a thin, frowning mouth.  Her stare sliced across the dusky compound and its denizens with equal disgust.

   The sight brought several Romulans to the fence to have a look.

   "It is Meilor!" breathed one of the tevol'oc along the row.

   "Soor!  Mi'vrach ea vrohk," exclaimed another, staring at the figure in awe.

   Castillo looked at Sharesh and Ferro.  They both shrugged.

   "What's going on?" Mika said, coming to see the flurry.

   "Someone named Meilor," Castillo told her, pointing at the woman.

   "Not only someone!" admonished Roju.  "Meilor is daughter of Senator Biaku and a great scholar of Romulan political history."

   "And she is the general's wife," smirked Akurn, watching for their reaction to that.

   Castillo didn't sell him short--though he shouldn't have been surprised.  It did offer him and the others a rare diversion, however.  It spoke of everything Tokarel had proven of himself in his habits of acquiring what he wanted without concern for the price.  Naturally, he would be an unfaithful husband, too.  By the look on Meilor's face and the anxious expression of her assistant's, it looked as though the wife had finally got up to speed.  Grinning with conspiratorial satisfaction, Castillo watched the woman spin around with a flourish and go to the building when a wide-eyed Dradar came out for her.

   The grin lasted only as long as it took Castillo to claim a nearby bench.  Thinking it over, he knew he shouldn't enjoy it so much.  Tasha could be in danger, as there was no telling what the Romulan wife might do, and at last look, Tasha didn't look in any position to fight for herself.  He was still as interested as the rest of the tevol'oc to see what would come of the event, proving again how very little they had to do outside of work, especially now that winter had settled in.

   To his and everyone else's surprise, they did not need to wait long for more to look at.  Not ten minutes later, the wife came swiftly down the front steps and crossed the mall, signaling another few standers-by--more assistants, who had waited outside the main compound gate.  Just behind her was the assistant, who carried a large bundle of blankets in her arms.  When Meilor was out of the way, the assistant broke into a gallop to get to one of the men, who took the bundle and disappeared for the transport pad, just beyond the main gate.

   Castillo stared, as everyone else did, as Jovvok closed the bars and reactivated the force field, wondering if it was what they thought it could be....

* * *

  


   The next afternoon, as they came out of their mid-shift assignment, Castillo ran right into the back of Parker then grabbed the young man's arms to prevent them both from toppling onto the pebbles.

   Tasha was out as usual--though nothing was usual about it.

   Wearing her sand-colored fleece coat and boots from the winter before, Tasha wandered down the mall toward the garden, just as she had every day during the temperate months, her back straight and head high but her every step gradual and perfectly spaced.  When she turned to brush her gloved hand across a frozen thistle pod, he could see that her mouth was pleasantly upturned, seemingly at peace and otherwise vacant.

   She was clearly pregnant no longer, and may as well have never been.

   Castillo took a long breath and started on his way again.  His whole head felt numb; his hands barely felt a part of his body.  The processors were already being a pain in the neck--but at least he could do something about that.

* * *

  


   "House staff?"

   Leaning on his desk stool in the corner of his cubicle, Badock did not blink.  "As you likely are well aware," he told Castillo, "part of what has protected you here is the general's exceeding desire to uphold his honor, which involves the terms of his contract with Consort.  It is clear that the general has no honorable option in this contract but to ensure without question that you and your block are kept from harm.

   "This expressed, I tell you that Dacey _will_ do harm to _herself_ if she is left in the crussu roosts.  The conditions there have been toxic to her, and her health has suffered.  Even I feel pity for her, which I admit I have not done for a fellow slave in many decades."

   Castillo paled, and his mind raced to put the pieces of Dacey's behavior of late back together.

   "However," Badock continued, "that is of minimal concern when we must consider the general's reaction to our neglecting our duty and therefore jeopardizing his honor.  We do not forget Jovvok, ever--a free man of rank and good family."

   Castillo's brow twitched up.  Indeed, none of them would ever forget Jovvok, as the constant reminder of his fate tended the gates on his knees every day, per the general's promise, his face permanently etched with shame and hatred. 

   His thoughts returned to Dacey, who despite her difficult nature had always seemed like she'd been a happy person once, and still could be in turns.  He remembered the mess hall incident a couple of months ago.  Mika was pressing her to see Hajat because Dacey's tension was so pronounced, she could hardly get food into her mouth.  Insisting she wasn't sick but increasingly agitated, Dacey bolted out of her seat and struck her head on the cement.  She'd remained quiet and tense since then.  Maybe she wasn't as all right as she'd insisted and they'd wanted to believe.  Then again, Badock could be concerned about her for not being accustomed to her unique manner of expressing herself and her swings from high to low and back again.

   "Are you asking me about this?" he asked.

   "Certainly not.  I am only informing you that Dacey is now in an interview with Dradar; if Dradar accepts her, Dacey will no longer be a part of your block.  She will live in the main house quarters and be a member of that staff for the foreseeable future."

   It took another second, but Castillo finally realized that Badock was showing him a great amount of respect by telling him anything.  While he did have to keep him and his crew alive and healthy, Badock had no need to inform Castillo or anyone else of reassignments--hardly ever did, in fact.  Still, Dacey's removal would be a significant change.

   "I only recently realized that Dacey's linguistic skill and quickness of body may be of some use in the household," Badock finished.

   "You think she'll be all right over there?"

   "That is a good question I cannot answer.  However, Romulan house staff are educated precisely:  She will be excellently trained and monitored; she will understand what is expected of her and live by the house schedule, which is firmly maintained.  There will be outstanding stability, which she looks to require.  Moreover, while immature and rash, Dacey has intelligence and is not disgusting to look at.  Dradar insists on only those things when considering an applicant.  We will know her decision before midday."

   Castillo nodded.  "Thank you, Badock, for letting me know."

   "Our duty brings us honor, and our duty to one another, served well, can be nothing but productive toward our ultimate goal.  I sincerely hope this will be the last reassignment."

   "God, me too," Castillo exuded, laughing despite himself, and a little more when Badock broke into a rare smile.

   It only lasted a few seconds, but it felt good.  He could admit that much, at least.

   "I think it will be a productive meeting," Badock concluded and waved Castillo away. 

   Castillo gladly obeyed.  Parker and Adamson were probably at the murruk plant and waiting for him by then.

* * *

  


   Murruk was a new grain, imported from a colony world with a similar climate to Rul'siat's.  The hard kernels were roasted and ground then immediately sealed in small cases and set into heated preservation boxes for shipping.  From an accidental taste of some powder on his fingers, Castillo reeled at the bitterness.  But from what he had heard, murruk was made into something akin to coffee, steeped with hot water, filtered then blended with cheese curd.  It sounded disgusting, but it seemed to be a big enough hit in the capital that a strict deadline for the processing and shipments had been set.

   They hadn't finished loading three flats of boxes before he and Parker had to stop, cursing their soreness and Parker puffing with the exertion he was still unused to.  Yang has always been their powerhouse, but until Hajat got another shipment for him to inventory, he and Innivra were on light duty in the mess.  Parker never complained, however.  None of them felt they could after what had happened, and having watched Yang's body grow lanky, unsure and pale, and his temperament become reticent, as a consequence. 

   Or Castillo _thought_ no one could complain.

   Just as they got the last of the flat loaded and started on the new one, Dacey stormed into the plant, her curly black hair pulled tightly back and her pale face wide with terror.  When her familiar whine filled the air, Castillo almost wished it were rather the whine of an impending machinery failure.

   "You cannot let them send me over there, sir!" she demanded.  "They want to send me to the main house!"

   "Yeah, Badock told me about his plans," Castillo said.

   Dacey's eyes shot open with disgust.  "And you _let_ him do it?!"

   "I didn't have a choice in the matter."

   "They're sending me to serve on the _house staff_!  Under the _general's sister_!"

    _So much for her mental health,_ Castillo grumbled to himself, ironically disappointed in his being right after all.  Another change in routine was obviously all she had needed to dispel her air of efficient intensity.  "And your problem is?"

   "My problem?  You fool!" she retorted.  "You know I'll never get on there!  They don't _talk_ \--not like people.  The house is like the bottom of the ocean."

   "At least you have hells to choose from," Adamson teased.

   "I didn't ask for your commentary!"

   "Enough, both of you," Castillo said and glared at Dacey.  "Why are you coming to me again?  Badock told me you needed to get out of the roosts and so he came up with a duty that you can handle for a change.  It wasn't anything I got to make a decision about.  He just gave me a heads up."

   "I cannot go to that place, sir, and live like a person.  I'm already off the hinge here.  I'm sure to--"

   "Considering what Tasha's gone through, you have no right to complain."

   "Don't you dare compare me to her!" Dacey retorted.  "This has got nothing to do with _the consort_ , but that I can't do what I _wasn't trained to do_ and have _never been_ and make it work!  I cannot go back to--"

   "You'll do what they _tell_ you and you'll get used to it!" he retorted.  Bad enough it was hot and wet in there with no break in sight, but Dacey's protests almost made him want Jovvok back.  When he was around, Dacey never dared to wander off from where she was supposed to be.  "Time after time, we've had to make up for your failings.  Time after time, you've come after me with nothing but complaints!  You seem to forget, Ensign, that we're here, too!  And we've gotten by because we figured out that we have something more important to think about, like _surviving_ this place!  If you're too miserable to live, don't take the rest of us down with you.  I don't have room for your crap anymore, and I'll tell Badock that, too if I have to."

   "I just..."  She paused, there, visibly rethinking herself, and he could tell she regretted being there, now.  And for a moment, he regretted not being able to soothe the woman's nerves like Mika could, be as clever as Captain Garrett had been or even follow his own advice.  --But that was just for a moment.  The hissing valves reminded him that the day would be no longer after that distraction.  At last, she continued, "Thinking about serving there terrifies me."  Adamson groaned and she glanced at him.  Thankfully, she seemed to have run out of fight and didn't address it. "Dradar seems fine enough, but I can tell she's the sort who sees _everything._ I amused her today, and sure, I'll be glad never to see an egg again in my life, but this...  It's so direct to the source.  I'll end up right at the place that got me there."

   Castillo shrugged, turning back to the boxes.  He'd meant it when he said he was done with her.  He'd tried to be a comrade, he'd tried to be a leader, and he'd tried to be a friend, and each attempt seemed to only have a temporary success, if any.  He didn't have the time nor the desire to try to be a guardian angel, too.  There just wasn't enough time in that endless Romulan day to carry her whims and emotions.

   "Try not to," he replied and got back to work.  He gestured to Parker and he maneuvered a new flat into place.  "A little help, please?"

   She was gone a few seconds later.  Castillo didn't stop.  It felt good to think that if they trained staff as well as Badock boasted, he wouldn't have to deal with her again.

* * *

  


   It didn't take long for him to rescind that idea, too.

   They learned a few days later that Dacey had not been assigned to Dradar, but to Tasha as an assistant to Ivador.  They had not been told, of course, but found out when Mika pointed out Dacey, buried in a cloak and hood and kneeling on the side patio at Ivador's firm instruction to wait for their charge to return from her walk.  Asking Narin if their guess was right, she confirmed that the ensign was in fact now a lower handservant.

   At first glance, Castillo couldn't help but chuckle at the ensign's tight expression and half wild stare.  But then the humor faded.  House staff or no, pain in the neck or no, she was still a Starfleet officer, and she _was_ a little pitiful there.  It looked like the hardest thing Dacey could ever do, sit in one place and be utterly silent, as household staff was required to be and what Dacey had dreaded the most.  Knowing Ivador's habits and practices, she would probably be in place for over an hour if the weather didn't grow bad. 

   And now, against his first inclination, he now felt he should apologize to her for casting her off as he had.  She deserved a taking down and she was obnoxious, but it was easy to forget that behind the bravado was someone who was plainly terrified.  And they _were_ a crew--a block.  It was still hard to remember their status of sole survivors.  He shouldn't have given up on her.

   And then there was Tasha.  Cynical as he knew it seemed, he really wanted to know how she was doing--and from a human perspective.  So maybe it would be a good thing, having Dacey there to report personally on Tasha's well being.  But that would indeed require a mending of the rift between them that he'd blasted wide open.

   They didn't see Tasha or Dacey again for twenty-seven days.

   The air turned bitter, and a solid layer of ice attached itself to all of Rul'siat.  Outdoor maintenance shifts were taken down to a shuti and meals became hot, heavy and spicy.  The long, relentless Rul'siat winter had arrived. 

   "How long until the break of spring?" Castillo asked Tharol one afternoon as they stood in the court at mid-shift, watching a gleam of sun peek out between the distant ridges.

   "We have only just entered the winter," Tharol said, her dark eyes unmoved. "Yesterday, it was two hundred and eight days."

   Castillo could say nothing, and he let the air grow with deathly silence.  That, he felt, deep in his chest.  Breathing, he let the frigid air fill him, freeze him, then warm...a constant cycle.

    _Two hundred and eight days...of this._

   The expected silence in the chill, however, was not without exception.

* * *

  


   "The field!  Shut it down!  Shut it down!  Activate the transport!"

   Every slave in the court turned to look at the noise that rose above their midday milling, Castillo included.  To their memory, Dradar never once suffered herself to speak with more than dulcet condescension.  Now she _screeched_.  Looking over, Castillo saw through his foggy breath her superior façade filled with desperation as she scrambled to the gate and slapped the control there. 

   "Open it!  Open it, now, Officer!"

   He stood and slipped through to the fence to see what was the matter.

   "Location, Dradar?"

   "The central infirmary!  --Open the gate!  _Now_!"

   Before Castillo could imagine something about the clamor, he found himself instantly pressed to the fence to see Kimolg carrying a slim, lifeless form in an elegant day frock and slippers across the mall.  As Jovvok jumped to do his duty, a slight woman in a dark olive frock and no cloak or gloves appeared on the far side of Kimolg--Dacey, he realized.  Streaked with shock and fear, she held the woman's head as they ran through the gate and to the transport pad.

   "Tasha..." he breathed.  He touched the forcefield, leaning as if to move away with them.  His gloves sizzled slightly in the current, repelling his mindless pressure.  They were gone a few seconds later.

   "Tasha."

   He slept perhaps a few minutes that night.  His heart would not stop hammering; his mind would not stop playing out scenarios.

   Forcing his eyes to close, he made himself remember her as she had been when they had met, crisp and bright-eyed in her uniform, with her hair combed back and that small but pretty smile that spoke of a great deal more wit than she probably let herself enjoy.  Their uneaten ration meal proved his hunch.  Her voice had filled into him so neatly, too, that slight lilt in her sweet tone that said everything when she said nothing.  How she had looked when he left her ship that last time.  She hadn't needed to kiss him goodbye.  He was already a goner.  No wonder he has fallen so hard for her that he had never gotten over it.

   He had never gotten over it.

   He never would.

   Castillo choked on a sob when he opened his eyes again, eyes now filled with tears.  "Damnit," he muttered and sat up.  Kicking his legs over the side, he leaned over, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, and he sighed out a long, dark breath.  Then he stood.  He would have gone out in the frigid cold were the barrack blocks not sealed at night.  So instead, he walked to a corner, as far away from the others as he could get, shoved his face into the inside of his elbow and let it out at last.

   No, there was no getting over that--not like that.

   And _that_ he could accept.

* * *

  


   Three days later, he saw a figure in the garden, a tall shape in a heavy cloak and hood.  He only glanced at first at the common view, but then he realized and looked again.  Almost making himself think it was the general's sister, he then saw a slender, gloved hand stretch out from a fold and brush over a reflection stone.  A turn, and Tasha's face appeared deep within the thick hood.  She wore no attempt at a smile, but her gaze was relaxed, taking in the garden as always.

   Castillo deactivated his cart and moved to the gate, numb from the cold and now wondering if he was hallucinating.

   Was it her?  He squinted, focusing, making himself certain the vision was real.

   It was, and it was now approaching.

   She only seemed to near the fence by accident, her attention was so diverted; she hardly seemed aware of anything until she was nearly in front of Castillo, who in those few seconds might have feared she would leave without seeing him at all.  All the same, it gave him more time to take a closer inventory of her.

   Her expression he put away immediately, for it was indescribable.  Her face was pale and the fingers on her right hand, encased in close-fitting gloves, shook slightly.  Her eyes, while clear and bright, were cast away from her path in such a manner that he knew why she had come out of the garden on the wrong side.

   But as soon as he believed she would walk right past him, she turned and blinked.  Then a slight smile found her lips.  "Richard," she whispered.

   "Tasha," he said, relieved to hear her voice.  Though it was different from when they first knew each other, both for its current softness and inflection, it remained at large her own.  But then he got back to the rest of her.  Now that she was close, he really felt the difference in her presence--the _distance_ in her presence.  "We saw them taking you away the other day.  Are you all right?"

   "Thank you...yes.  It's better."

   "What happened?"

   "There was an accident," she answered, but before he could ask for more details, she blinked and grew momentarily more alert.  "How are you?  Dradar mentioned there was a problem in...  What was it?  The processing unit?"

   He had to think about that for a moment.  "You mean the refinery?" 

   She bent her head once.  "Yes."

   "That was a while ago, before Dacey went over to you."

   Tasha's brow furrowed.  "It was?  Why did I think...?"  Dropping whatever she had not concluded, she asked, "It's fixed?"

   "Yeah.  We got it done.  It's held up."  Watching her not process the information, he wondered if she had heard his answer at all.  It looked to have escaped her mind that moment later.  Steadying his nerve, he nodded toward the unmoving but watchful figure at the patio.  To his mild surprise, the well-bundled young woman showed no reaction to her view, which was focused solely on Tasha.  "How's Dacey working out for you?"

   "Would you like to speak with her?  You haven't spoken since she came to us."

   Richard blinked.  "I can?"

   "Of course you may, and at any time when I'm walking."  She signaled the younger woman with a subtle turn of her fingers.  Unfolding her legs in a smooth motion, Dacey was upright and at her side within seconds.  Tasha stepped back.  "He wants to speak with you."

   She left them there at that, returning to the garden in the same place she had left it--apparently not by design, Castillo now suspected.  Jerking his stare away from the fleece-clad apparition, he asked, "What's going on with her?"

   Dacey frowned at first, drawing a noiseless breath as she watched the consort pace silently down the path between the trees.  There, Prarl met her and began a conversation that took them further into the garden.  A gesture Dacey's way made the physician look her way and nod.  Dacey bent her head in response then at last gave Castillo her attention.  "There was an accident," she told him.  "Havaln took a bad fall and got a bit of a brain shake."

   "We saw it," Castillo said, allowing his concern some air, "you, Kimolg and Dradar taking her out.  Dradar looked terrified."

   "Aye, Dradar was in a panic.  None of us are doctors; we didn't know what kind of damage was done, and with Prarl at the central infirmary for inventory, the best thing to do was to go there.  She's still woozy from the whole episode."

   "Yeah, I can tell."

   "It's over with now, though, and we're back to the Schedule without much issue.  Havaln only needs time to recover."

   "From what?"

   "Her injuries, as I told you.  She was home the day after it happened; but she needs to get her balance and energy back."

   He wanted to ask more about it, but expecting at any time to be called for his shift and knowing he could ask after Tasha again later, he turned the topic.  "What about you?"

   "I'm fine," she responded instantly.  "No complaints."

   Castillo slumped, pressing his hand against the grate for lack of ability to place it on her shoulder.  "I apologize for how I acted the last time we talked, by the way.  I'd been thinking about that, and--"

   "No, no," Dacey cut in, her stare finally tearing away from the garden path.  When she looked up him, her deep blue eyes shone in the dim light, almost like glass, but still with real feeling.  "You were right to give me a kick.  I'd panicked, and I should have been grateful.  In fact, I should recognize Badock for his part in helping me to my place."  She looked toward the gate.  "Is he about?"

   Not thinking about it first, Castillo looked around at the sea of Romulans coming onto the court.  It was hard to tell, but he had come to know enough of the farm staff to guess.  "Not that I can see.  But I know he came out.  Maybe up by the joint gate?"

   "I'll go there, then, while Havaln is in the east turns and Prarl is with her.  I must signal her at cho shuti'tivvuh."

   Castillo looked at the corner bar chronometer and took the required moments to translate the time.  Romulan clocks were very different from Federation standard.  Even after a half-year of Dacey's tutoring on both topics, he was more comfortable with Capital Romulan than basic time telling.  "That's not long from now."

   "Then I'll go find Badock."

   Only when Dacey had gone did Castillo realize that, while still quick and alert, Dacey's voice had become nearly as soft as Tasha's.  Her steps were much like Ivador's, too, when she had a purpose:  She moved smoothly through the row, quick and direct in her heavy cloak without a bob.  More than that, she had effectively ended their conversation without answering any of his questions in enough detail to satisfy him.

   Another time, he told himself.  Surely, they had plenty of that ahead of them.

   Coming around to the inner gate, she stopped adjacent to Jovvok without looking over.  Steeling his features and bowing his head, Jovvok opened the gate for her.  Picking up the length of her cloak, she moved her softly shoed feet over the threshold, her back arrow straight and head held high.

   Jovvok closed his eyes.  Dacey disappeared seconds later, having not once looked at him.

* * *

  


   The midwinter's Mukharoshov had passed as darkly as had their first Romulan year anniversary there:  A dark and endless year on that large, foreboding world.  For only that they all were still breathing could Castillo celebrate, though he hardly did that.  Rather, he bundled up for a day in the semi-exposed loading warehouses and waited for the beacon to tell him to go.

   Twenty katila later, he repeated the procedure in the very same manner, running his assignment order in his head, ran over it a few more times, and then, again, waited for the call.  Innivra and Yang were at the latter's bunk, fiddling with injection tubes that were the first part of the daily treatment; the others would be back from the morning chant very soon. 

   Castillo and Parker also had to check in with Marashk for the new inventories.  He mentally fitted that into the time it took to get to the equipment plant, given that Parker would be on time.  The fair-haired ensign had taken off with the doe-eyed Tiras for a little time in the supply racks, much as they had almost every morning after chant for the last few weeks. 

   Staying barely within regulation and returning to their respective blocks with only a minute to the beacon, Castillo did not doubt that the romantic aspect was not the only thrill they were getting from their liaisons.  Parker had suffered for the lack of mental stimulation more than the rest of them, and Tiras was known to have come from a family of radicals.  They were destined to busy themselves with each other, so much so that some of the other tevol'oc were hatching bets to see who would trip up and earn a reprimand first.

   He wanted to discourage the diversion, but Castillo really couldn't curse Parker for being human...even it was with a Romulan.  As long as they didn't cross the line and jeopardize the block or Tasha...whom he still thought about...sometimes dreamed about...because he too was human, much as he wanted to think he could overcome his feelings for her on top of the rest.

   The call would come.  He could _feel_ time in that place.

   When he felt secure enough in how his own day should unfold and began to think about what the others would be doing, there was a flurry in the mess, but no beacon.  It couldn't be.  Wasn't it time?  But people were moving...and then he could tell that they weren't moving in the usual manner--not directly.  Castillo then wondered if he'd been distracted and just not heard the call--not that it was at all easy to miss, but... 

   He shook his head.  There really was no way he could have not heard it.  So then, where was it?  Indeed, he was a little off-put for its tardiness, if it _was_ late.  The morning chant should have been finished for a while by then.  They should have been back, he thought.

   Just as another rush of noise stirred in the common room, Mika and Ferro at last rushed into their block, their faces bright from the cold.  But instead of hurrying to get ready, they pulled off their hoods and looked between Castillo and Yang.

   "You won't believe this," Ferro started, glancing at Mika, who was poised to tell them.

   Castillo turned a plain look up at them.  Though news wasn't common in the barracks, the two along with Sharesh had taken a vested interest in gossip.  "What now?" he asked, heading to the latrine as he asked so to escape the details.  But when a group of other tevol'oc started out to the court, Mika grabbed his hand to redirect him. 

   "Jovvok's dead."

   That got him to double back and grab his cloak.  "Be right back," he told the other men.  Seeing Yang's curious face, Castillo nodded.  "I'll find out all I can."

   Moving swiftly through the mess and down the corridor, he followed Mika and Ferro out into the court, where a congregation had already formed.  They cleared a path for them--even Aregen, who had never recovered from his sister's beating and reassignment by Jovvok, and had never forgiven him or Sharesh for what they had no control to change.  That time, Castillo understood their gesture as a show of regard; their slight bows as he passed through acknowledged him as the leader of the block that had indirectly sent the menacing officer to his fate.

   That fate was plain to see when he finally came to the grate at the border of the barracks.  His eyes widened and his gut tightened to see it.

   The gate's forcefield control box was open, and several connectors and lines had been pulled from it.  Protruding from that box was a stiff body clad in the plain tunic and cloak of a barracks tevol'oc, hands still clutching the lead wires, bare feet stretched out and strained.  The skin was pale green, and a pool of brownish liquid had frozen on the ground around it.  A puff of air sent the smell of charred flesh their way.

   Castillo swallowed his bile.

   "Jovvok found a tool to open the field box," Chovon told him, his steady gaze still beholding the tableau.  "He put his head into the current.  They say he cooked inside from the force of the electrocution."

   "God," Castillo breathed, shaking his head.  Tokarel had called it.  Though it did have to take nerve to end it as he did, Jovvok did choose the death of a coward, ending his shame rather than bearing it.

   Carter and Tiras slipped in between him and Mika and mouthed their own astonishment.  After that, they all merely stood there, and he wondered what they would do with the corpse.  No one would touch it, it seemed, though it had already frozen solid.  With painful curiosity, they waited, and even their duty summons remained silent.  Badock, too, stood at the head of the court next to Thorot, Jovvok's replacement.  They too did not move a muscle.

   So they waited.

   Then the general appeared.

   Stepping out from the rear of the house with Prarl in tow, General Tokarel crossed the mall lengthwise, his every booted step deliberate and poised to make everyone know his direction.  His face set hard and steady, his dark eyes found what he'd come to see, and then he came up to it.  Moving around to get a full view of the corpse, Tokarel paused.  Then he turned back to look across the mall.

   Castillo glanced at the house then, and he saw Tasha in the house's entry patio with Dacey a pace behind her and Kimolg manning the step.  Tasha soberly beheld the general for what felt like a full minute in that frozen morning air.  At last, she closed her eyes and bent her head reverently.  Dacey followed suit, and then Kimolg.

   After they straightened, the general turned back to the man he had destroyed.  Steadily examining him once again, he bent to a knee and pulled the corpse from the control box.  Ice from the former officer's internal contents cracked and held to the frigid cement, tearing of a shard of the tunic it held.  Jovvok's head had indeed been completely incinerated; a portion of his skull had charred through, leaving a gaping, cooked hole.

   "Install the replacement unit immediately," Tokarel said to Thorot.

   "I obey you, General," came the ready reply.

   "And well you should, for here you see the result of greed.  A waste, this is--a terrible waste of a life that might have basked in the glory of reward from the Empire it served.  How brutally we fall when we choose to serve ourselves first."

   Castillo blinked to wet his eyes.  They froze again instantly.

   The general waved back Prarl and, bending swiftly, hauled the corpse of Jovvok onto his shoulder and straightened to his feet.  He allowed himself a sigh, and then a long glance at the tevol'oc and khurr'oc, officers and assistants in his command.  Slowly, he turned and started across the mall, returning whence he came, the stiff form of his broken protégé balanced disturbingly on his shoulder.  Not a sound, not even breath, could be heard in the barracks court.

   Across the mall, Tasha was nearly as motionless as the corpse.  Only her eyes seemed to follow.  When the general was gone, she turned and went inside again; Dacey followed, catching her charge's cloak when it fell from her shoulders.

   Kimolg shut the door.  The summons sounded.  Castillo closed his eyes briefly and turned to report.

* * *

  


   For all Castillo's hope of having an informant in Dacey, it was just that much she drifted away.  Not in mind so much as Tasha had, but emotionally, socially.  With each passing season as the farm work for the rest of the block became rote and the alien became familiar, so Dacey became entirely wrapped up in the house staff through the remaining winter and into the spring.

   Each sunrise and sunset, she was standing amongst the house staff with a palm raised in the air before her, praising the great star and the honor in their duty.  Every afternoon that Tasha was out, so was she, sunk to her knees on the patio, watching her charge with increasing focus until she was her sole focus, rising or following instinctively when Tasha got to a certain distance.  She relaxed into her duty within seconds of placing herself.

   She didn't seem to mind the wait at all by the time the bulbs poked through the roughage, buds appeared on the trees and all the blocks were assigned to trudge through the cool rain and untie the shurrat from their winter moorings.

   They spoke less and less, as well, not as much due to their schedules as their preference.  In truth, Castillo wasn't sorry for Dacey's absence.  Their days were markedly easier to bear without having to deal with her ups and downs and the constant blunders and reassignments of the past year.  But just as readily, he felt his guilt for having emotionally forsaken her.  As he continued to remind them all and himself, she was still a Starfleet junior officer, and that they should always be certain she was in good shape, even in those seemingly fine conditions.

   Unfortunately, deriving that information from her, too, had grown as difficult as her temperament once had been.

   "You've been all right then?"

   "Yes."

   "How does the day go there?"

   "Very well."

   Mika sighed, but tried again.  "You just seem so quiet."

   Dacey briefly broke her gaze at the upper field gate to meet her former superior's eyes.  "I'm occupied enough that I don't have to talk so much."  That said, her attention to the gate resumed.

   "Occupied with what?"

   "My duties and studies."

   The general and his consort were touring the field that cool spring afternoon and looking into another area for cultivation with Badock, who had suggested it.  Dacey was left behind in the lower court along with the rest of the laborers. 

   However, she could hardly be considered one of them anymore.  Head-to-toe, she stood apart from the farm staff.  Instead of being placed over her crown as it was in winter, a long hood fell from the back of her tightly bound and braided hair, bringing out her pale face and wide eyes.  Her gown, lightweight and amber, hung about her frame and was tied neatly at the ribs with a wide, matching sash that hung down her side to the ground; a chain with what looked like access chips dangling on the end was looped around the sash.  The thumb pads at the ends of each told him they were biometric.  Adamson in fact had been the one to nudge Castillo and point them out with a flash of surprise--and for good reason.  Very few of the house staff had a stack of chips that thick.  Dacey apparently had access to a majority of the house.

   Sitting straight on the bench with her stare nailed to the gate, the servant was plainly still at work.  The wait was not a diversion, but another level of duty.  Despite this, Mika tried again to get Dacey to open up.

   "Are you able to have any free time?"

   Dacey flicked a grin and shook her head.  "Not much," she answered.  "If I'm not studying or preparing during my isolation, I'm asleep.  All other times, I'm working."

   "So you're with Tasha all day?" Castillo asked.

   "Havaln.  Yes, most of it, or I--" she paused to listen to a noise from the field then, "I wait the door a good deal, too."

   "Wait the door?" Yang asked.

   "For Havaln when she is within the door."

   Castillo frowned and silently picked at Dacey's expression.  It gave away nothing--and maybe there was nothing to give.  Waiting the door also being her job, she probably wasn't trying to listen to anything going on with Tasha and the general.  He still itched to ask, though.

   "Maybe when the midsummer comes," Mika offered, "you'll be able to join us for the Mukhurdroi."

   "I'll be at the house staff tables for the Feast if I'm here at all."

   "Where else would you be?"  Adamson chortled.  "House staff gets shore leave, too?"

   If Dacey noticed his sarcasm, she ignored it.  "We may be on the general's ship.  A portion of the household travels with him, Havaln and I included; Emidas and Deviar, as well.  I'll not know the itinerary until it's time to pack the luggage."

   This was news to Castillo.  "Is that where you've been when we haven't seen you outside?  When Emidas and Deviar are gone?  You're all on Tokarel's ship?"

   "Usually," Dacey answered simply.  "But nowhere else.  The general keeps Havaln very safe here at Rul'siat."

   "Yeah, she's been a big investment," Castillo replied.

   Dacey did not comment.  Instead, she pressed her hands on the table and rose to her feet.  "I sit enough in my duty," she said.

   Mika followed, and together they took a slow lap around end of the court near the field gate.  To his great interest, Castillo noted how the tevol'oc she passed bowed their heads slightly in acknowledgment.  When Dacey was still among their block, their derision was barely contained.  Likely, house staff earned a higher rank, and that she had remained there--and now carried possibly every key to its interiors and surrounds--gained respect, as well. 

   He also noticed that, in another complete role reversal, Mika was the one talking to--at--her.  The ensign did turn a small smile her friend's way from time to time, but it seemed only to appease Mika.  By her admission, Dacey simply had another concentration now, and it being the whole of her life at present, she of course would disconnect a little from them.  That she was able to talk to them at all was a good thing.

   The general and Tasha returned from the field with a pleased looking Badock three paces behind them.  Spotting them before Badock could come around and touch the gate open, Dacey hurried to "Havaln," who once within the gate took that opportunity to detach her day cloak and press it from her shoulders.  Already arrived and at the ready, Dacey smoothly pulled the cloth away to reveal the embroidered red silk gown that hung on Tasha's every excellent curve so perfectly, she almost did not seem real. 

   Castillo could not help his sigh to save his life--and nor could Parker and Adamson, who unconsciously whistled a breath through his teeth as his eyes brushed over the perilously low cut bodice.  Castillo shot him a warning glare even as he planted his heels in the ground.  All over again, he was affected by her beauty and particular presence, even if a good deal of both now was thanks to careful tending and an excellent tailor.  It didn't matter to him now what made it.  She struck him deeply in any case.

   In the same stead, he knew he had been avoiding her, too.  Her distraction made it difficult for him to deal with her.  What was there to say, after all, when he honestly didn't want to know the details that she tactfully did not supply.

   The consort and the general moved around Badock and then Emidas, who hurried up at Badock's signal.  The general said a few words to them both then took his woman by the upper arm to lead her through the row and to the mall.  The consort did not even blink to resist.  Her posture and gait well aware of her esteemed standing, she yet offered a glance and the tiniest smile Castillo's way before focusing on their destination, her gown swishing against her thighs and calves.  Dacey did not give them nearly so much acknowledgment, but followed with the consort's cloak folded in her properly crossed arms, precisely six paces behind.

   Castillo watched, hardly breathing but relaxed well enough now.

   And maybe his heart had toughened a little.  It'd had to.  His body was taut, his hair was shaved short and touched with grey, his skin had grown fair and his stare had to be a harder than it had been because the new tevol'oc that came in over the winter went right around him when they first got a good look at him.  He'd forced himself to stop caring about the maybe.  Things had to be red or blue, stop or go.  He didn't have room in his heart anymore for anything but what was in his hands.  He did as he was told and did it as well as he could, both for his crew and for her, who had in the great goodness of her heart allowed them a life as slaves...

   For the sheerest concept of hope.

   But he tried not to think about that anymore, either.  Only what was at his hands.  Only what he could do.

   Only belatedly did he realize that he'd been well trained, too.

* * *

  


   With one more year of such reeducation, their third spring at Rul'siat brought them from the packing facilities and storehouses and into the fields once more.  With one more year, he knew what time it was by the angle of the sun, and he never had to question what was next on the Schedule; he knew which guards were on duty at any given time and place, and he knew perfectly well how to cut maccha.

   The cut had to start right where the color shifted so to allow another growth that season, and the knife needed to scoop rather than hack or, worse, slice.  Castillo made good work of it that time.  Rejir had come down hard on him when she saw the sloppy job he did the first time--and the second time, he'd been too careful.  His third season was being the charm, and like the rest of them, he was anxious for a dose of "slave gourmet," as the more humorous among them had named it.  (To their collective surprise, they had learned that many Romulans had a healthy sense of irreverent humor.) The maccha made a rich and filling stew not unlike potatoes with sour cream with a heavy dose of spice, a good fix for his gnawing hunger, acute as it had been the last two springtimes, when his body craved more nutrient after a long, frigid winter followed by working on that unusually warm day.

   He rolled the wide sleeves of his work tunic up his strong forearms.  Two and a quarter Romulan years, three in Federation time:  The numbers met him numbly now when he still cared enough to count.  They probably thought them long dead by then back home.  Not that it was worth thinking about...even if he always would, and kind of wanted to.  He would always care about what his family and Starfleet knew, and always hoped they would someday know better.

   Even so, the hope was empty--a thought without conviction for being so wholly unable to produce the desired change.  So instead, he focused on the good weather and his ability to get the blade just under the neck just right, scoop with a flick of his strong fingers, turn slightly and pull.  Successful, he set the maccha upside down on the scrub next to the plant so that the sap wouldn't drain out.  Adamson and Roju would come in a few minutes to help him collect them, order them up by quality and size and get them to Chovon.

   At the peal of the hawk, Castillo glanced at the sky to find it, but then he cursed under his breath to see how the sun hung.  It was past midday by a shuti.  She would be coming through on her walk soon.  Bending, he made quicker work of his cuttings.  "And it's a great crop," he muttered to himself.

   Adamson and Roju came on time, the latter pulling on her gloves and motioning to the first row.  Castillo nodded then jerked his stare out to the next row.  There were more groups than usual working there that day.  From funguses and maccha to tree tapping and general maintenance, the spring had definitely come to the expansive garden, and the unusually quick start of the season made the great flurry inside it.  And he had to admit, if only to himself, that it did reflect the care that had been put into it.  When the summer came, he would feel a bit more satisfaction to have to go foraging within it, and not just because he was getting a break from the shurrat.

   He smirked at his fingers in that thought.  Indeed the mark of a slave, as Kivos had put it.  The orange stain, so heavily sunken into his skin and nails, had lasted throughout the winter, a constant reminder of what they had been subjected to, as if it could be forgotten--of what changes had been wrought in them all.

   Only his lasting hatred helped him never forget that he was a human Starfleet officer, born with very certain rights, and he would die knowing he was no man's slave.

   He looked forward to the maccha, though.

   They came around the front entrance to the garden and pushed the hover cart into the middle trail.  Laden with little creeks and spindle-like flora that soon opened into a lushly treed and pond-centered mall in the center of the garden, Castillo got to work carefully loading the next long row that he had cut.  Coming up on the east side of the little mall at the center of the garden, Castillo gave Kivos a wave and spotted Mika and Sharesh leaving through the other end with a hovercart laden with buckets.  They had collected a batch of winter-bred algae from the pond to feed the vurro in the far fields. 

   Moving farther into the garden mall, he glanced around at the various laborers and spotted Dacey on the far corner, kneeling on a bed of pebbles with a small mat in the center, a plot specifically laid for house servants.  Sitting on her heels, her hands flat on her thighs, she did not move a muscle, save her eyes, which remained sharp and watchful of everything that moved in her line of sight.  Castillo frowned.  They hadn't spoken in a couple of seasons, since the end of Summer, in fact.  She rarely moved from her perches.  But then, like him, she probably had nothing to say.  Nevertheless, he made a mental note to signal her over soon.  He didn't want to lose touch with her entirely.

   He quickly realized that if Dacey was waiting on the rocks, then her charge would come through soon.  A familiar dread followed the thought, and that was followed by the usual uselessness.  He set another maccha bloom into the cart, more gently than before.  For a moment, he watched the droplets of sap develop in the open pores...

   "Castillo," said Roju.

   He shook his head and went back to the cutting.  "I am here."  He snorted.  "As ever."

   Not a minute later, he saw the consort coming toward them from the other side of the pond, likely on her return to the house.  Unable to avoid--resist--looking, Castillo briefly permitted himself the view.  Though her gait and expression could be considered nothing more than ethereal, Tasha seemed that day to be entirely aware of her surroundings, pleasantly noticing every bird, creature and flower.  She even gave Mika a nod of greeting when they crossed paths.  Moving into the sunlight, she suddenly seemed to glow.  Like most of her clothing, her gold dress was tied at the ribs and covered her arms in sheer fabric and brushed over her legs to her calves; the bust was cut square and low, where she was nearly as fair and well shaped.  Her curled hair, swept up on the sides with the length falling over her shoulders, was decorated with loops and a clip of precious, white crystalline jewels. 

   As always since her first appearance in the garden, Castillo knew she had been made over to be pampered, elegant and opulent, while still a slave who must take orders, be quiet and subservient.  Treacherously, though, he appreciated her look, what she had allowed to take over her entire being.

   How could she be content?  How must it be for her, living like that, day after day within herself, just to protect them?  Or had she relinquished her soul to that devil for the same purpose?  Which was keeping her sane in all of that?  Would she ever know herself again?

   But then Castillo knew it didn't matter.

   As if on cue, the devil in question entered the garden only a meter from Castillo's left.  Passing without a glance, General Tokarel crossed the garden mall and came around the pond.  He looked to have transported straight down from a battlefield.  His black and red uniform was smeared with white and grey soot, and a streak of deep green crossed his cheek, an untreated scrape.  His tightly cropped hair still managed to be in disorder.  But he was not bothered by any of this.  His focus was entirely on his destination: his consort.

   The moment he came around the pond, she saw him.  Stopping, she poised herself to let him come to her.  Moments later, they were face to face.  He was a full hand taller than she was but their gaze remained locked without difficulty.

   The general didn't speak at first, but stood and caught his breath in a few deep puffs.  His consort's eyes briefly widened and she reached out to examine the scratch on his face.  His head twitched up slightly, and she bent her head slightly.  Letting her hand fall, her fingers traced over his dirty uniform collar, straightening the link at one side with a brush of her fingers; then she drew a breath and placed her hand in his waiting one.  He held her there for some time yet, looking her over as if making sure his property met his expectation.

   Finally, he met her gaze once again and said, "Do you love me, Tasia?"

   "No," came her reply, her stare and expression unbroken.  "I serve you."

   "But you care for me?"

   "Of course I care for you."

   "And you honor me."

   "Yes, I honor you."

   "Good," he confirmed, if only for himself.  There was no relief in his face, though he seemed to relax a little.  "It is not your place to have love for me.  That is a spouse's duty, if given at all."  His lips turned up.  "You know _your_ duty, Tasia, and hold yourself more properly than I could have desired; for that, I would honor you, too, by one of the means granted me."

   Her lips parted slightly with understanding, and her hands fell to her sides.  Castillo briefly broke his focus on her to wonder what the general was talking about.  But then he got back to work, growling at himself for wasting a precious few seconds of his life wondering what the general's intentions were.  It was obvious--and unfortunately becoming more obvious still.  Another minute passed between them as Castillo tried not to watch, but found his eyes involuntarily moving their way again.

   A slight turn of the head here, a flick of a brow there:  They seemed to communicate non-verbally now.  Her bosom rose and fell with her breaths as he touched her neck, then his brow flicked up and she looked toward the house.  Another look and her brow rose briefly again.  Her fingers moved automatically to his coat, but he gently brushed her hands away, holding her fingertips captive a moment longer than he needed, and then releasing them.  Her hands remained poised in the air where he left them before floating across to rest on his chest.

   Leaning down, he kissed her.  Flinching, Castillo watched her arms slip around the general beneath his long uniform coat.  The he snaked his arms around her lithe body to turn her where he wanted her to go:  back to a large settee wrapped around a gnarled tree just behind them.  Lowering her, the general's hand slid up his consort's bare leg beneath her dress, jutting it outward to give him access.

   Castillo turned his head away to lean down and grab a maccha.  The worst of it was knowing how much he wanted to crush the delicate ball in his fingers--or throw it.  _At what?_ he asked himself, feeling stupid on the rebound.  So instead, he set it carefully on the tray.... 

    _"Actually, I think I'd like it if you called me Richard,"_ he had said to her on her Enterprise, and the spark in her eye, the smile she gave him, made his blood stir and his heart flutter in a way it hadn't with any other woman he'd known....

   Kneeling, he reached out to cut the next bloom.

   Behind him, he heard her gasp and cry out a little.  He glanced over in time to see the general grab her under the knee and push himself against her.  Her lips parted as her head fell back, holding his forearm for purchase as she rode out his motions.  His other hand brushed at her laces, exposing her breasts to the warm sunlight and his lips.

   Castillo felt himself tear inside for the force of his disgust and despair, and he couldn't figure out why he was being such an idiot now....

   The general's fingers sifted through her hair as she gasped again; her slipper dug into his coat.  Her hand flew up and his free hand caught it, then he wove his fingers in hers and pressed it back to the settee.  Pushing hard into her, he at last grunted and stiffened, finishing her with a searing kiss that she returned.  Parting, their eyes met again for nearly a minute as they regained their breath. 

   Finally, he was done with her, moving away and adjusting his trousers.  Touching her cheek for a moment, he brushed Tasha's soft day gown down her trembling legs, reached up to caress her breasts again before laying the fabric back in place.  Setting her up to lean against the back of the settee, he knelt and said a few words to her lips, straightened his coat then left her there.

   Broken of his gaze and then his presence, Tasha was left to recline on the settee, staring at the sky across the mall above the trees, where the hawks still circled overhead.  Her breath was still coming in small puffs; her hand drifted up to her bodice and lay there, warm, too, in the sun.  Her lips were upturned, smiling and utterly lost within herself....

* * *

  


   Troi's mouth had unconsciously dropped open, and when the man before her paused, her eyes glazed with tears to feel him so locked onto that impression--and thus feel herself remaining there, wondering about all that had happened to bring Tasha to that day.

   Set deeply back in the plush chair, Mr. Castillo wasn't affected by the counselor's sigh, but rather frowned with renewed bitterness.  "Tokarel did that to her in front of us--just for spite, to show us what kind of control he had over her."

   Silent throughout his long recollection, Dr. Kerr at last coughed a laugh.  "You're such a caveman, _Richard_ ," she stated, trilling the "r" in his name for added derision.

   " _I_ am?" he responded.

   "The general didn't have to prove anything to anyone," she stated, "particularly to his farm slaves.  He took his pleasure out there because he could and he wanted to."

   "That makes me feel better," Castillo muttered.

   "What bothers you is that _she_ didn't care what they did there.  Obliging him there and then was not something Havaln fretted about.  He gave her whatever she might desire, and she returned the same then waited for the next thing on the Schedule, as did we all.  That simple." 

   Troi peered back at her.  "Was it always so regimented?"

   "The Schedule ran the world as we knew it.  We all lived by it, minute by minute in the performance of our duty, duty performed with honor and precision.  We were out of sorts without the order."

   "She was out of sorts, period," Mr. Castillo said.  "After a couple of years, I had no idea what was left of her mind."

   Dr. Kerr merely shrugged.

   Troi regarded Mr. Castillo again.  "I'm not certain I understand how Tasha could have lost her entire sense of self as you say, unless there was some extreme intervention..."

   "There wasn't," Dr. Kerr asserted.  "They didn't do anything like that to her."

   "Then what was it?" Troi asked.  The other woman had quickly grown defensive about that matter.

   "Straight behavior modification," she answered, "and nothing out of the ordinary for a tevol'oc being trained to particular specifications.  There in fact are standards for reeducation among their kind, and it's been perfected over a millennium."

   "With you as well?" Troi queried.

   "We've no cause to examine me tonight, lassie, and I'd prefer we don't start."  When Troi bent her head in apology, Dr. Kerr finished her thought.  "From day one, Havaln was given choices, and she made them.  She'd die another death to think she were considered a victim--a fact you well know, Castillo."  She moved to her feet and threw her shawl over her arm.  "Now, at the risk of looking like I'm running away, I'm going to run away now.  I'm tired and want to contact my husband and daughter in private before I go to sleep.  Goodnight, Commander, Castillo."

   She was across the living area and gone a moment later and without another sound, leaving Troi a little shell-shocked.  The quiet, quick woman had a great many feelings going on at the same time, and all of them had grown stronger throughout Castillo's long remembrance.  Her terror and loathing at the mentions of Jovvok were as potent as her ambivalence about the crew from whom she had been separated.  Her feelings for Tasha, however, were quite powerful, a mixture of love, ferocious caution and despair.

   Castillo just shrugged when the door on the other side of the guest compartment shut.  "Like I said, Dacey lived in that house."

   "How long did she serve her?"

   "In Federation time, seven years, from a couple of weeks after the baby was born to the end.  She did everything for her:  Got her food, her clothes, bathed her--everything.  She waited in the hall or on kneeler squares in the garden, and wherever else she went, on the general's ship and into the village.  If Tasha was out and about, Dacey was usually no more than a few meters away."  His eyes turned down to then recall, "She was the one who collected her from the garden..."

* * *

  


   The general exited the garden mall on the other side, flicking his hand at the waiting nih'orr then giving her a few words.  The moment he was gone, the consort's servant rose smoothly to her feet and moved around the pond, her face set solely on her task.  No other eye but Castillo's followed her as she approached and spoke to her charge, who was neatly retying her bodice.

   After a brief conversation, so close and quiet he could hardly tell they spoke at all, the consort at last got to her feet and moved to the same exit the general had taken.  Her hand fell across a new bloom and her gaze drifted around as though she had not been stopped in her walk.  Soon, she disappeared, her usual shadow six paces behind her.

   Then the nih'orr stopped for a moment.  Letting her shoulders crawl up with tension, she dragged a few breaths, forcing herself back into control as she focused again on her path.  The glint in her eyes dried almost immediately upon her resuming her pace, and her expression returned to its usual hard neutrality.

   Castillo and Adamson shared a look.  "That answers that," Castillo said quietly and bent to cut the next maccha head. 

   One day, he'd be able to cry again.  Just not that day.  


* * *

  


   "She's probably right about me," Mr. Castillo confessed a quarter century later.  Leaning back in his seat, gravity reasserted itself on his features, and he again looked all of his sixty-four years.  "I'm pretty much locked up in what I was able to see and what little I could learn after the fact.  It was hard to know I was left out, much as I...  Well, I'm glad I didn't have to see any more than I did, too." 

   "Because you had been in love with her."

   Mr. Castillo nodded.  "I was attracted, and she reciprocated, in what ways we could, which was pretty innocent.  But that was before, on her ship, when we were on the same track, you know?  On Romulus, she always seemed concerned about us, always called me by my given name; but at the same time, she was a thousand light years away with no chance of coming back.  She never did.  She couldn't."

   "*Picard to Troi*"

   The commander started at the sudden intrusion, but then reached up to touch her communicator.  "Yes, Captain."

   "Counselor, please report to the bridge."

   Her glance at Mr. Castillo was met with a jerk of his chin.  "Yes, Captain."  The comm off, she opened her mouth to speak, but again, he waved off any questions she might ask in parting. 

   "Go to your duty, Commander," he told her.  "Be glad you have it and it is what it is.  We're not going anywhere."

   With another look, another wave on his part, she nodded.  "Good night, Mr. Castillo."

   He didn't watch her leave, but waited until the door had closed behind her to slide the album card back into his pocket then sink back into the cushions again.

   In fact, the quiet was good.  While his time on Romulus was easy enough to recall, it was hard to remember her, though he always had, had never forgotten over all those years, despite finding a love he never thought possible, building a family and living a full life he wouldn't trade in a million years. 

   Remembering as he had that night was emotionally draining, too.  Long had he not talked about the barracks, the block they lived in, the Schedule, the fields or Jovvok, though they all came back to him with perfect clarity.  Longer still had he not cut maccha, worn druvgh sandals and his thick brown cloak, or rubbed at the distinct orange stains in his fingers and nails, the brand of a Rul'siat slave, though those memories, too, proved their strength.  And never had he talked about Tasha in such detail, and how he'd felt about her then.  Even in his most confessionary moment, he'd never talked about that.  Not that much.

   He leaned back again, sinking in, letting his weight depress the cushions.  His eyes focused on the viewport, the generated "window view" that flung the streaking stars about them.  Longer than the rest, he had not piloted a ship, not in twenty-eight years, but he could still tell the angle was set just slightly starboard.

   How strange that some things had such holding power, long after they were gone.  Romulus, Tasha, navigation...resignation...

    _"I'm going to tell you something right now only because I trust you more than anyone, and I love you more than anyone, and I will never, never hurt you as long as I can help it.  But I will keep going with this because...I need to.  I need to do this."_

   Mr. Castillo's eyes closed, and he sighed with relief.  


* * *

  


_  
Coming Next: Chapter Three. There  
© D'Alaire M., 2011  
swiftian@yahoo.com  
_


	3. There

    He felt her before he heard her, and she shushed him so quietly, he almost did not awaken.

    But with a start, turning over, he did awaken, and was shocked to see her above him--right above him as she leaned over his bunk.  Her hair had been loosened from the jewelry she'd been wearing at the Mukhurdroi celebration:  She wore a simple wrap dress now, though her eyes were still lined and she still smelled of a rich cinnabar. 

    "Don't say anything," she whispered, and then she touched his face.  Her fingers were soft and warm.

    "God, Tasha, what are you doing here?" he asked with sensible alarm.  It was the middle of the night, and she was in his block's bunkroom.  "How did you get in?"

    "I'm permitted anywhere in the compound, remember?"  She smiled and slipped her feet under his blanket.  "And be _quiet_ , Richard.  You're still too loud."

    His heart was pounding, but his hands found her, half for desire, half to be certain she was real.  But she was, warm and soft beneath his fingertips.  "How did you get in here, Tasha?"

    "Through the door," she replied, lightly mocking him for the dumb question.  "You don't get to be a security chief without knowing a few tricks."  With that, she ran her hand down his torso and got into his pajama trousers, too.

    "God, Tasha!" he gasped and looked wildly around them.  The others were fast asleep, but he knew they surely wouldn't sleep through what it looked like she was after.  "We can't do this.  They'll wake--"

    "Be quiet, Richard," she said again and pulled the blanket over them. 

    "What if you're found in here?  Won't they--"

    "I know the risks, and you're still too loud, Richard."  Pressing her hand to his cheek, she leaned down and kissed him.

    He groaned against her, feeling her expert grip and the warmth of her body slowly covering his as she deepened the kiss, flicking her tongue against his.  Somehow in the matter of a few gasping breaths, he felt her skin against his, and then her hand release its grip before he was sure he'd explode.  Then her warmth returned, surrounding him, wet and hot, descending upon him until he realized that she really had taken him inside of her, and was grinding against him.  His head dropped back and the scent of the oils on her skin was making him woozy.  He couldn't move his arms--couldn't move anything...

    He couldn't move!  Only she was moving, driving herself on top of him, controlling him, controlling what she wanted...what he wanted. 

    She knew what he wanted and was suddenly giving it to him, at incredible risk...  But it _was_ everything he'd been thinking about, craving when they spoke, imagining if only...if only things had been different.

    But it wasn't different.  Why was she there?  It could only be a trap, some kind of deception to get them to...

    "Take it," she whispered against his lips.  "Don't worry.  Just take it.  Take me, Richard."

    His whole body was on fire now, and her movements were speeding, her muscles tightening around him.  At last, still balled up in a chasm of pleasure, suspicion, relief and terror, he groaned and felt his release, deep within her.  With it, his body was released from its trap, and the relief flooded him.  She was there and she was genuine, smiling down to him and caressing his face.  Immediately, his arms snaked around her to pull her close and roll her over.

    "Now I have you," he breathed, and his heart knew it, beating with joy as they rolled over and...

    "Ugh!" he grunted when he hit the cold cement floor face first. 

    Groaning softly with the pain of what was probably going to be a bruised cheek, he took the required minute to take stock.  It was still night.  His blanket was wrapped tightly around his legs.  His pajama trousers were particularly moist; the erection beneath them still throbbed painfully.  Everything above that point grew hot with mortification, though when he rose to his hands and knees at last, he was relieved somewhat to see no one else in his block was awake.

    And Tasha wasn't there. 

    The door was sealed.  It had never opened.  There was no trace of her perfume.

    She would never be there.

    Propping himself to stand, he staggered to the toilet, damning himself to keep the noise down.  Catching himself in the mirror, dim in the lighting but discernible enough, he saw beneath his closely cropped hair a haggard glower.  His eyes had creased and darkened on that world, while his skin had paled.  He'd recently turned forty.  He felt twice that.  Not that it mattered, since he'd essentially let her sell him and the others.  He'd let her do everything.

    She would never be there.

    He felt, deep in his heart, that he'd be spending the rest of his life knowing and hating it.

    Castillo cut his eyes away from the reflection and moved into the stall.

* * *

  


    "Excuse me, but is Terrol in today?"

    Richard glanced up from his work. 

    He had been fiddling with the monitor arm for an hour by then, trying to get the viewscreen to sit at an angle he liked.  He had been contemplating seeing how well it worked after he recycled it for a new one when he was disturbed, and so his first impulse upon hearing the question was to jerk his thumb at the door. 

    His hand barely left the glossy desk.  Before him was a tall, well-dressed lady with a mane of rich brown curls and the bluest eyes he had ever seen above a full, rosy mouth. 

    Four years home on his home colony of Hannev, and how had he never seen her before?

    Of course, he knew why.  Since coming home, his mother had liked to point out how he had done everything to ensure all but complete invisibility.  The once ambitious Starfleet pilot with a stellar career before him had come home after a long and confidential absence.  He quietly had taken his position at the transport yards, retired in rank but working with the small Starfleet presence there.  He went to work and did good work, but then packed it up for his flat not far from there.  He spent a good part of his time off either sleeping, reading newsfeeds or visiting with his mother, who in fact had advised him to take it slowly, not try for a normal life until he felt ready for one.

    Only recently had Richard decided he needed to change jobs; without complication he made the change, and then started expanding to eating at cafes and attending events around the colony.  But he maintained a position of observer inside the crowd, blending in and simply doing what needed to be done.  Even friends from his schools days, ones who had never left Hannev or had, like him, returned after a career elsewhere, didn't recognize him or had to do a double take to be certain it was him.

    After nearly twenty years of living in issue boots and a uniform, he instead became known for his neat linen tunics and trousers and casual loafers, worn to the market, work and events alike; but a change of color and shoes dressed up his appearance.  Only in the coldest part of winter did he oblige himself to wear water resistant shoes and a brown coat.  He didn't explain his new tolerance to cold weather, but just said it was warmer on Hannev than where he'd been.  Having kept some length onto his curly hair throughout his youth and career in Starfleet, he had submitted to his receding hairline after an embarrassing try at growing it out again.  Now he kept it very short, finishing off his hardly recognizable status. 

    Some people did wonder about him and noted some concern, but he shrugged them off, knowing what and why well enough.  How couldn't he have come back to the Federation after eight years unchanged, after all?  How could he not leave a piece of himself back there?

    He didn't talk about it much.  He talked to his mother, about what he'd done there, about the other crew, about some of the staff, about Badock and Emidas, Tharol and Kivos.  He called them friends and hoped they were all right as much as he knew they were.  About the rest, he told her what he could, and he felt it was enough.  More than enough.  His mother and Granddad Oscar were the only ones who knew where he'd been.

    Now, four years after coming home, he caught himself staring up at the lady before him, who patiently waited for his brain to catch up with his view.

    Suddenly, he was standing up and giving her a smile.  "Just this way, ma'am," he said, more softly than he'd intended.  He cleared his throat, a desperate attempt to look like something other than an overgrown idiot.  "He just got back in."

    "Thank you."  She returned an equally pleasant look.  "You must be new here."

    "I just transferred from Transport," he confirmed. 

    "That's a far cry from colony administration," she noted.

    He shrugged.  "It's more productive for me, considering."

    "Considering what?"

    "Considering I have no plans to leave Hannev," he returned.  "I thought it'd be a good idea to start getting involved in the everyday workings, start helping and getting to know more people.  Terrol and I go way back, and so...here I am."

    And he would have a great deal of time later to kick himself for saying that much.  He hated it when he rambled.  He ticked it off as unusual nervousness still working itself out.  The lady seemed not to notice or care, though, much to his relief.

    Rather, she stuck out her hand.  "I'm Mona Sarrani."

    He took it.  Her hand was as soft as a satin sheet.  His had to feel like rough-cut wood.  "Richard Castillo."

    "Nice to meet you, Richard.  You'll see me around here often.  I'm the local data management engineer."

    "Ah.  Okay.  Great.  He's right in there."

    She smiled again.  "Maybe we'll see each other around, maybe grab a coffee down at Garo's."

    "I go there a lot.  Yeah.  Good to meet you, too, Mona."

    It took five minutes of recovery to realize that she said she was a regular engineer there.  She hadn't needed him to escort her.

    Stupidity and hope had never felt so good together.

* * *

  


    "Terrol told me you were a Starfleet officer."

    Richard peered at Mona over the rim of his steaming mug of hot cinnamon cider, making a mental note to kill Terrol sometime very soon.  "I was.  I retired recently."

    "You're still pretty young," she observed, searching.

    "I served for twenty-two years, fifteen of those on a starship," he told her, but then shrugged.  "But I didn't have much to show for it in the end.  It was time to go."

    "What did you do on that big ship?" Mona asked, undeterred.

    "I flew it."  Finally, some pleasure found his memory, and maybe he would let Terrol live.

    She smiled to see it.  "You really loved it?"

    "There was something about it...hard to explain.  The feel of having your hands on something so much bigger, so much greater than yourself, and its responding to your every touch...  It might make me sound like a controlling person, but it's different, more.  It's like an art--and sometimes like a game, figuring out just the right trajectory, the right speed and angle..."  He shook his head.  That woman was little more than trouble.  He found himself spilling over with her more than he had with _anyone_.  But she wasn't like anyone.  Not even Tasha had struck him like that.  Just looking at Mona, his memory of Tasha was surprisingly easy to set aside, and that was a good as it was disturbing...  And he was talking about piloting....  "I've never had to explain it.  It's hard to find the right words."

    Mona grinned, leaning her chin on a hand to regard him.  "You just have to agree that you loved it, you know."

    "I loved it," he complied, thanking her with his fond expression.  "Again, after so many years out there...  The discovery, the wonder, the relations--that part of it made it worth every minute.  But now I can stand to broaden my interests here at home."  He picked up his mug, swirled the spiced cider inside it around without interest.  Having never recovered from his Romulan diet, he still expected a steaming rucchkal to precede his meals.  The cider tasted like a watery tea to him.  His inclination toward spicy, acidic food, in fact, had quickly become something of a wonder in the office after one of his sauces literally melted the flexible container it was in.  He set the mug aside.  "And it's great to be near my mother again.  She and I have always been close."

    "She lives here, too?"

    "Yes, out in Barrow South--Olsen-12."

    "My parents are on Tristad.  They're only a kilometer away.  I'll be surprised if they don't know each other already.  Is your mother alone?"

    "Right now, yes.  My granddad comes and goes with the seasons, and my cousins live in Pradaux."

    "We should all get together then," she decided.  "Dad loves to cook out back, old fashioned pit and grill and everything."

    "A real one?"  He straightened.  "They allow it?"

    She giggled.  "I don't know if they do, but it's been there since I can remember."

    "I'll ask Mom."

    "How about next weekend?"

    "I'm sure that's perfect, but I'll get back to you as soon as I can talk to her."

    "Or I can drop by the office," she offered.  "It's on the way, after all.  Or maybe we can meet for breakfast tomorrow?"

    He smiled, mentally noting to bring his own sauce.  Thinking about meeting Mona, however, he knew he'd probably forget.  For the first time in a long while, he found that he didn't really care.  "Best plan I've had since I got home."

* * *

  


    "I, Richard Anthony Castillo, take you, Mona Sarrani, to be my lawful wife, to have and to hold, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, prosperity and dearth, for all the days of my life..."

    He was saying the words, but he barely knew he was to gaze into her beautiful eyes and feel her smile.

    It'd taken a couple of years for that to happen, too, but easily it was the worthiest wait he'd ever had.  He'd sailed through the Academy, utterly assured of his skill and desire to serve.  His earliest assignments tested that, honed his skills and opened his eyes to more responsibility.  He took it all--and then took time off to work in the Shaolak fields, helping to test new small cruisers and shuttlecraft and learn all he could before settling behind the conn of a starship--and then another starship--and what a ship that one was!  The Enterprise, so worth the wait, became his home for the next five years.  There, under Captain Garrett, he earned the rank of full lieutenant, becoming chief of his department.  He knew where it was leading then, would things go well from there.  It was the best time of his life, and he lived it to the full.

    It all paled in comparison, now.  Without a doubt, he barely knew the pride and joy he felt just then:  Mona standing before him in her pretty eyelet dress, rounded just slightly with their child, her dark hair catching the sun that peeked through the trees of her parents' expansive garden.  Everyone they loved was around them, sharing their blessing and joy.  He was becoming a husband to a beautiful woman with a big family that had already welcomed him.  He was going to be a father.  Richard hardly felt like he was in his own shoes.

    Almost eight years in Romulan space and he lost everything.  He and his crewmates worked hard, not just for Tasha's sake, but for that dream of home, that desperate hope that they just might make it back.  All that time, his hands were stained with shurrat juice, fading at last a month before returning to Hannev.  Six and a half years after his last look at Romulus, now fifty, Richard Castillo had his life back and then some--tons, the universe, starting with Mona.

    His eyes glinted with tears above his smile as it spun through him again.  Mona was radiant.  Their world and its Federation were at peace.  Their future was ahead of them, their new home together, their child, their family.  His life could hardly be improved at that point.

    She had faith in this, when he had none.

    He had been angry with Tasha, resentful of her choices despite her sense, and insulted by her alienating herself from everything about the Federation, her humanity, her _self_.  And yet, if he regretted one thing in his life at that point, it would be having never been willing or able to thank her for what she had sacrificed.  She would never have asked for gratitude, but now, seeing what his fate had allowed, he knew precisely how much she deserved his thankfulness.

    In turn, he would probably never figure out how he deserved the unspoken thanks _he_ now enjoyed, how it could have happened after all that had happened.  But it had, and he knew his gratitude.  He swore from that day forward he would never take a moment for granted.

    "It is my honor and privilege to pronounce you husband and wife.  Richard, you..."

    Richard hardly heard the rest of the sentence when he took Mona into his arms and dipped her back to kiss her sweet full lips.  They broke apart laughing when their family applauded.

    His smile was still in his eyes when he brought Mona to her feet again and touched her cheeks with his fingertips.  "Thank you," he said softly.

    "Anytime," she returned, drawing him back for another kiss.

* * *

  


    "Come, Castillo!  You dishonor our Feast of Light with your smugness!  You are a tevol'oc of good quality!  Share!"

    Castillo leaned back against the barracks' outer wall and shook his head.  The Feast that year was turning out to be particularly playful.  Castillo blamed what was probably an excellent collection of ales, "presents" from the main house to help the sixty or so so'oc feel better about being there.  The fire at the center of the court was lush and the foods were equally so, spicy, tangy concoctions from the kitchen of which Castillo admittedly had grown very fond.

    But singing?  "That is one step here I will not take," he told the others.

    Tiras reached around Carter to give Castillo a push.  "He is too grand for that!" she goaded.  "Were you such a highborn human that you would never dare condescend to us?"

    "What if I was?" he challenged.

    "Then we should try even harder to break you into our lowborn manners--and vastly improve you!"

    "Strull koh al valad!" sang out Chovon in a booming baritone, his ale held high in a hand, and a roar of approval bounced around the court.  Even Officers Virag and Roschuna, leaning on the gate, raised their disruptors approvingly.  "Diir au igmotros'at!"  Reaching out, he pulled Castillo off the wall and shoved a flask of ale in his hand.  "Jiirdak tooll vikra dolsh shavat nivag--au roolsh iglah!"

    Castillo didn't want to, but he couldn't help it:  He laughed--and with a gesture to his friends, he went ahead and drank the heavy, spicy ale.  Last year, it'd brought him to his knees.  "Doorshok!" he cursed, feeling the burn of the stuff all the way down his throat and radiating out to his arms and head.  But he did not fall.

    Another roar lit up the court.  "Viggak!  Viggak!" they cried.

    "Honor me, my friend!" Chovon boomed, taking Castillo's hand and bringing him into the center of the court.  "Come, be with us this once!  Be our friend and comrade!"

    Castillo gazed into the other man's eyes.  His head swayed a little, but he did not mistake the sincerity Chovon had offered.  At last, his chin bobbed.

    Another roar went up around them, and Castillo drank again and deeply.  "Doorshok al vigomra," he chuckled.  Joined by Sharesh, Castillo came in as Chovon started, "Strull koh al borog!  Dreas au iglah trolloman'at!"

    Two shuti later, as the sun began its usual premature dive into the teeth of Oradrro Ridge, Castillo felt the slight tingling of the fence driving static into his short hair as he leaned back on the wall bench on the far end of the court.  Leaning into it a little more, he coughed a quiet laugh at the sensation.  The midsummer party was finally stumbling off to their bunks or, like him, settling into a digestive repose wherever a bench could be found. 

    But the music hadn't ended, he realized in a couple of lazy blinks, and he looked around to confirm it.  The music wasn't in the court.  Turning to look at the garden, peering down the row, he saw figures moving and a fire.  He blinked, having not noticed them there before.  But then, he _had_ taken a few mugs of that ale.  His head felt like a chunk of lead.

    Focusing with some effort at first, Castillo began to recognize the owners of that other party.  Kimolg's tall form was easy to make out, and then the willowy form of Sikara, and then Sorvis, the heavy-handed housekeeper.  Easy strains in a lilting beat echoed about their place in the garden, where bowls of food sat for communal choosing, and other servants moved and paused, chatting, laughing, or holding hands and turning in the dance to the music.  Shed of their regular cloaks and boots, they wore tunics and gowns, sandals and scarves, and their celebratory fire glowed white in the dusky haze.

    It was far more civilized than the barracks' feast--and of course, it had to be.  This was the Mukhurdroi of the general's house staff, who lived by another standard and held themselves above the common tevol'oc, even when more than half were just that.  But it looked no less a joyous event, even to the figure in the deep red gown who appeared from the other side of the fire, turning with another woman's hand in hers--Dacey, he realized when the two turned the right way.  Dacey wore a light blue dress, and her hair was loose of its usual knots and decorated with a stand of thick beads.  But the younger woman was not what held him.  As always, it was Tasha...who he now could see was smiling--truly _smiling_ , as though she had never known a day of pain....

    Castillo found himself sitting up more straightly, if only to be certain he wasn't imagining it.  He had never seen Tasha smile like that before, not even on her ship.  It was a smile without care, without concern, so beautiful... 

    _God, it hurts to see her,_ he sighed to himself.  As if to spite his pain, she briefly, so briefly, turned that smile his way.  Pausing in mid-step, staring through the trees at the figure in the barracks' fence light, her eyes widened in recognition. 

    And the world stopped for a moment.  She blinked, her lips parted, poised to speak...

    Then the world restarted.  The music grew and the figures turned once more, and Tasha stepped around her servant, not losing a beat.  Castillo could swear she offered him a nod before swinging around again, disappearing behind the fire with Dacey in tow.

    His eyes closed woozily on the blur of figures left in her wake.

    Hours later, she reappeared as he slept, and he could swear that she was real.  He could have sworn that she was with him, and desired him as much as he wanted…

    As much as he wanted.

* * *

  


    "Shvaa't i'ag nurruok ochau iglat au dosihk," Richard corrected offhand, not looking up from his PADD as he entered another appointment to his schedule. 

    "Excuse me?" asked an amazed Terrol.  Pivoting on his feet to look back at Richard, he bent his head to raise his brows.  "Did I just hear...  What did you say?"

    "'Shvaa't i'ag nurruok,'" he repeated, "is 'Let us walk forth proudly.' 'Ochau iglat au dosihk' means 'and let our star see our dedication.'" He looked at the school administrator that had come in with Terrol.  "What you quoted just then was what could be called pig Latin Romulan, just close enough to be understood but not making much sense.  --School fair?"

    "Yes," breathed the school administrator.  "We found some folk songs in a Starfleet database, and we thought they would be good to add to our program."

    Richard stared at her a few moments longer then shrugged.  "I can't say who translated it, because it sounds like the Jikraahk dialect--that's the official dialect--and no one sings songs like that in the capital.  Even Vulcans would laugh at that translation."

    For a moment, he felt a little surprised that it came back so easily.  He never spoke Romulan anymore, and he sure didn't celebrate their holidays or sing their songs...anymore. 

    Richard shrugged to himself.  He knew all too well what it was like to resist the inevitable.  And maybe Dacey had been a better teacher than any of them had wanted to think, especially then.  How she had hated giving them those lessons! 

    "That said," he finished, "if we're going to mix up Romulan customs, we'd might as well do it with the vocabulary in tact."

    His toddler son had begun to jog clumsy laps around his desk when he finally met the stares of Marius, Terrol and the school administrator.  He could hardly blame their ignorance, though.  Folk duty songs being a slave custom in a culture that did not under any circumstances broadcast the tevol'oc lifestyle, he was surprised they had found anything like that.  Vulcan agents must have raided a database somewhere along the line; Dacey's exposure to Romulan as a teenager was proof of that.  The Federation had heard absolutely nothing from Romulus since Narendra, but certain Vulcan departments, as he knew all too well, had a way of getting people and information in and out of Romulan space.

    Thinking on that, Richard reminded himself to catch up with Narun, too.  His old classmate might have some information for _him_.  Nothing serious, of course, but it never hurt to keep up with his contacts on Vulcan and in Starfleet.  In fact, he had to.  Starfleet Command still considered their fate a confidential affair, and for good reason.  Relations with the Klingon Empire had an ebb and flow about them, temperament-wise, and reviving old insults was not something Starfleet wanted to do in any form. 

    For that reason and, true, for concern's sake, Starfleet did like to check in with him and make certain he was doing well and feeling "stable," or if he was in need of any counseling.  Richard always gave them a positive response.  He knew they really wanted to see if he'd continued to remain quiet about his "unique mission" (and was certain they checked in on everyone else with the same sentiments), but Richard didn't care.  He was happy with the people around him not knowing, not questioning him about his past, not looking at him and thinking of him as the prison camp survivor.  Rather, he was just the West Kennalt assistant administrator with a gorgeous wife, a rambunctious boy and a bad habit of burning kabobs on the semi-legal brick oven at his father-in-law's house.

    Not that he had completely forsaken his past.  Though he'd never talked about Tasha or the other Enterprise, Mona knew about his years on Romulus.  He also had a contact over at the Academy with whom he chatted from time to time and expected to hear from again that week.  Not that there was much to say, but Steve did promise to keep an eye out for a potential cadet.  Though he might never get any news on that front, Richard liked knowing someone was over there who would offer him the occasional tidbit from his alma mater, too. 

    Not that it meant anything, but...well, it did.  If she was there, he wanted to know.

    Terrol laughed, breaking the stupor in the room as well as Richard's train of thought.  "Where did _you_ learn so much about the Romulan language?"

    "One of my friends back in the day was a linguist and let everyone know about her acumen," Richard replied, a partial lie that reclaimed his inward grin.  "It became a kind of hobby while we served together."

    Thinking about it, he wondered how she was doing.  He'd heard from Mika that Dacey had finished her doctoral degree and was teaching, so indeed, it seemed she'd gotten over her disdain for the profession.  He'd recently talked to Yang, Innivra and Adamson, too.  They were doing great.  Innivra had switched departments, earned his medical degree and was now assigned to the main clinic at Starbase 12.  Adamson had left Starfleet to become a dedicated agricultural engineer--a great surprise in one way, but easy to see in another.  Adamson had become the most talented field worker in their block. 

    Yang in particular had pleasantly surprised Castillo.  Returned to duty after extensive physical therapy, the now lean and steely-eyed officer had already risen to commander and looked prime for a captain's seat.  Mika and Sharesh had likewise reviewed their educations alongside their careers, though both remained at their respective bases rather than on Starships.  Meanwhile, like Dacey, Ferro had immediately retired her commission and returned home; she had recently married.  Parker had also retired and had been traveling for some time, learning and writing and mostly just living freely.

    Richard sighed.  After so long in captivity, most of them had required time to recover the educations they could not use on Romulus.  A few of them didn't try and moved onto something else, others rebounded, and a few expanded on their more recent experience.  But it looked like they had come out all right for the most part.

    "Anyway," he told the others in his office, "let me know what you have, there.  I'll be happy to help."

    "Thank you, Mr. Castillo," said the school administrator, still awed.  "I'll contact you later, if that's all right."

    He added a little grin to his nod.  "Contact me at home.  I'm only here a little longer today."

    A few minutes after that, he lowered himself into his chair at the desk in his den at home.  Anthony immediately pulled his magnablocks out of the bin and Richard flipped on the monitor so Mona could patch in with them when she got a break.  Finally, he connected with the colony administration system and continued what he'd been doing before he'd had to go do some "office hours."

    No doubt, for all his desire to travel when he was young, he much preferred working locally, even if his home colony Hannev II had proven to be a handful and some--or maybe _because_ it was a handful.  Yes, it was probably because.  It seemed that the more he dug into the administration, the more he wanted to work with it, get it running better or just get involved with the many and different communities and cultures who had chosen to relocate to that now old, well-established world. 

    More time passed.  Anthony grew into a gorgeous toddler who looked just like his mother, and Richard found himself wanting to work from the house more often.  So, he passed off the office to his assistant and planted himself and his son in the den he'd designed and built to suit both their needs, giving Mona the ability to travel and work to her expertise around the planet, as well.  Meanwhile, he took over most household affairs, learned how to replicate edible meals for them all, took his son with him on personal calls and dropped in on Mona from time to time.  Everyone knew him from when he was a kid or more recently, so he could walk into any job site and get at least a few handshakes and as many updates.

    He loved his life and his home in ways he never thought he could.

    Richard leaned back in his chair, watching his son play. 

    Tasha would have liked that, too.  She would have wanted him to have that good life.

    _"Slavery did not suit my friend.  Powerlessness earned him no wisdom, only anger."_

    The air slowly left his lungs as the memory crept up on him. 

    _"That explained, I warn you not to dishonor me again.  You may sever more than you understand, and it will have nothing to do with me."_

    Richard broke his stare at the monitor and quickly started typing. 

    "Shvaa't i al ochisov au iglahk au dos'ihk mrullokodk.  Notlo'ki radi au viuhkmat n'sorro...."

    He nodded to himself.  It sounded rhythmic enough, something that might have been sung.  The translation might even make it through the filters, too, so he added a note for them to remember to disable that parameter for the program.

    _"Iglahk tiki chabbrolg hochka migret.  Mich'as ag davo pah kro'shkok!"_

    He could hear the chant, that booming echo that preceded every work shift.  He could see their faces, bright-eyed in the dim light. 

    _"Give us strength and courage, Great Star!  Keep us on the path that brings us honor!"_

    Again, Richard released his breath.

    When they finally had been snatched away from Rul'siat, Richard hadn't looked back--not with any sort of longing, as it were.  He never forgot his friends Kivos, Narin and Tharol, though.  They had stood by the "Federation block" through all their years there and never judged, always treated them as ones among their rank despite their racial differences.  Bitter as Richard was about their imprisonment, resentful as he was about the abomination of slavery and prostitution, he always wished in some small way that he'd been able to say goodbye, and maybe even to apologize for disrupting the shifts as they'd had to.  Badock in particular would have taken the sudden absences poorly, though it was probably explained away as a transfer.  Those were always done quickly, with few knowing about them until it was done.  Or perhaps they were branded traitors and listed on the execution rolls.  There was no way to know.

    Maybe he shouldn't, but he did miss them at times.  He missed their sly but gentle humor and utter certainty in all they could and should do.  So few were ambivalent; fewer complained, and even in the worst times, they maintained a quiet, assured passion for life and their way about it.  He missed their occasional songs and poetry sung softly as they pulled the berries and felt the warm sun, and the goading grin Tharol would offer to invite them all to join in.  After a couple of years, most of them did. 

    He wished sometimes that they could all meet again, as friends would meet, over a meal or at a resort.  That day would never come, of course, and maybe their rank and their duty was all that had brought them together.  Richard remembered them fondly either way.

    He looked down at his hands as he tapped in another line. 

    He remembered...

 

    ...walking into the court one shuti past tintren, his cloak hood pulled forward as he glanced again at the second shift assignment chip in his orange-stained hand.  Deviar had assigned him and Adamson to work with Narin on row cleanup that day.  Castillo was glad.  He was glad she was back to regular duty again, with Sikara now working in the household laundry.

    He had recovered from the night before with his dignity damaged but otherwise unscathed.  In no way was finishing off an erotic dream into a suction toilet, praying no one would walk in, anything less than personally humiliating.  Still, the feel and the vision of Tasha had not subsided, nor the smell of her perfume and the sound of her sweet voice.  Castillo frowned.  He should have known it was a dream.  Her voice had sounded like when he first had known her, and her eyes had found his without diversion.  It'd felt so real, though.  He'd really believed that he'd felt her around him.  He hated when dreams were like that.

    Letting his gaze fall away and out to the mall, Castillo saw her moving toward the garden, right on time, her dove grey cloak like a wisp of smoke around her slender body.  She had an oval ring on her finger, a long, precious stone that accented her fair hand as it swung gently in her graduate stride.  Dacey was in her shadow, as always, her arms tucked into the folds of her sleeves, her access chips clinking against her hip.  Slowing, Tasha let her attention drift, and suddenly she was meeting his gaze, turning a little toward him and giving him a flicker of a smile and a nod of acknowledgement. 

    His breath caught.  Like the night before—like always—the world around him dissolved.

    But then he remembered…

    Blinking, gesturing to Dacey, she almost came his way, but Castillo clutched his assignment chip with meaning, nodded briskly back at her and trudged up to the field gate.

    One he was there, however, his sinking heart slowed him.  He could talk with her.  He could take a minute.  She obviously wanted to visit for a moment and he had cut her off.  It wasn't her fault that his dreams focused on her.  She had done nothing wrong.

    At the same time, he couldn't look at her just then, not that day, not remembering that dream, her sweet voice and expert touches, and knowing she was lost, knowing that she belonged to the general and would not shirk her duty.  Not as long as any of them lived.

    He slumped.  He really should let her visit.

    Looking back from the gate, he saw she had already turned for the garden walk....

 

    Shaking his head with a jerk, Richard finished the last lines, humming to himself to get the meter right.  Most of the folk music has a shifting rhythmic pattern.

    "Here are some notes I jotted down," he told the school administrator over the comm, "and some chants and songs.  They might like trying to pronounce them.  They'll be able to see some good things about everyday Romulans, too, in the words."

    And he would have to pull out the intercolony database to drive his mind off the past that came with it.

    "Thank you so much for the input Mr. Castillo," said the administrator warmly.  "That will really make an impression on the children--all good, I know."

    "I'm happy to help.  Let me know if there is anything else I can do for you."  With that, he clicked out and pulled up the database he'd been rebuilding since he found it in shambles in a sub-file.  Since accepting his promotion, he'd been his department's repairman--another talent he'd brought back from Romulus.  He could sit and work on a single problem for months to complete a task without feeling an urge to move on until it was finished.  He had finished projects as an officer, of course, but he had used to think about moving on to the next thing, accomplishing more and better.

    He was a few lines into his table when another bleep jarred him from his train of thought.  He growled softly to himself and reached out to punch the silence indicator.  Looking at the receipt header, however, he made the table disappear and linked into the signal.  He paused for a moment to consider his son, playing with the blocks now and babbling to himself.  Anthony was busy, he decided.  He wouldn't pay his daddy any attention.  Even so, he didn't want to give the toddler any indication of anything unusual going on, just in case he felt like being a parrot that day.

    "Steve, hi," he said as blandly as he could.

    The man on the other end was thankfully astute at picking up signals.  "Castillo, good to see you."

    "How are you?" he asked, knowing his old Academy friend would understand the pleasantry.

    "Great, just great."  He started tapping into his console.  "Look I'd stay and chat, but I have that file for you.  Mind if I throw it and go?"

    "Not at all.  I'm knee deep in this database as it is.  I'll rather save it until I'm not so distracted.  But thanks for getting that to me.  I know you're busy."

    "My pleasure, Castillo.  Wife and boy doing well?"

    "We're all great, number two on the way."

    "Great work!  Congratulations, Castillo!"

    "Thanks.  We're really happy."

    Steve finished the transfer quickly, and the comm was closed a few seconds later.  He didn't pull the database up again.  He opened the file his friend had sent instead.  In a blink, it appeared.  In a cough, Richard felt his heart thump as his world slammed to a stop.

    She was there.

    "Oh my god," he breathed, his gaze sinking into the screen.

    _"What did she call you?  Tasha?"_

    _"Yeah." ___

He had in fact imagined that the "correct" Tasha Yar would also join Starfleet.  To his surprise, however, she had come in late.  He almost began to doubt his assumption and believe she had taken another career path when he checked the Starfleet Academy roster at what should have been her eighteenth and nineteenth years and did not see her there.  In fact, the first time he looked for her, soon after his arrival home, he didn't find a file at all.  Not wanting to stir up too much interest, he didn't look too deeply at the Federation colony records, even if he had full access to most levels of personal files after a few years working for Terrol.  Either way, her name did not exist in any of them.  So he had his old friend, now an installment at the Academy, let him know if a certain young lady began to attend there.

    "She's the younger relative of a friend from my ship," he had said.  "She doesn't know me, and she won't.  I just want to know she's okay, if she ended up on Earth, or wherever.  Nothing serious."  A lie, that, but Steve Lasky did the legwork, and the autumn after his marriage to Mona, Richard got a heads up that a young woman named Natasha Yar had entered the Academy.  Two years later, her student file was upgraded to general release, so Richard asked Steve offhand to forward it if he got the chance sometime.

    There was nothing offhand about his receipt of the file, however.

    She was there-- _right there_.  Everything he remembered of the woman who'd caught his fancy--what he'd _forced_ himself to remember on Romulus when all had been lost of her, and all he wanted on that world was to see _her_ again.  Now he was seeing her.

    _God, just looking at that face..._

    With trembling fingers, he reached to expand the file.  His eyes grew wet with a few blinks.

    She was so young, so ready.

    Her face was thinner and her stare seemed much harder than he remembered.  He thought at first it was just youth, but giving it more thought, he recalled that his Tasha had carried the look too.  When they were working together on one Enterprise or the other, she would glance up and hit him with that expression, a silent warning, or perhaps an accusation, though it melted quickly into open attention.  Her younger visage, frozen on his screen, filtered nothing.  He had seen _that_ look, too.

    Poking into the cadet's personal file, he then learned where she had grown up.  He'd suspected she had been raised outside the Federation if she hadn't been in the general pull file, but understanding what her upbringing must have been like put a shot through his heart.  Turkana IV was a failed colony that fell into chaos and devastation a couple of years before the battle at Narendra.  Just before their final mission on the Enterprise, the world was by its leaders' request ejected from the Federation.  What conversations they'd had about that in the mess!  Laments about the devastation and criticisms of the people who were too selfish and ruled by violence and clannish behavior to realize what they had thrown away in the name of power.

    _"They'll only destroy themselves," Castillo said, dismissing them all above a mug of coffee. "People like that only get what they ask for.  It's too bad.  I hear it used to be a nice place.  Great caverns under the city, about twenty levels worth of crystal formations, restaurants, great view from the administrative center all the way to the ocean.  My cousin did some work there."_

    _"Your cousin's not still there, I hope?" Lieutenant Dyson asked with some alarm._

    _"No, he finished his dissertation ten years ago.  Never went back.  Good thing, too.  Even at that time, the local government had been fractious.  He didn't want to deal with that."_

    Now, Richard was ashamed he had brushed off the place to its leaders like everyone else had.  Years after the Turkanan tragedy, little was known about what went on there, save what _not_ to do in colony administration.  None but the hardiest trade ship braved the violence and xenophobia to deal with those people--and those crews said nothing lest they risk their business with the treacherous factions living deep underground.  They left the blackened world to its devices long after the Federation had ended all claims there as well.  Both positions made perfect sense.

    But now it was more than that to Richard.  There, Tasha had been orphaned as a child, and from there, she had escaped as a teenager.  The reclamation of her Federation citizenship was officially approved a couple of years later.  That was why he could not find her.  That was probably why she was late getting into the Academy.

    Richard now also understood what had trained her demanding gaze.  Tasha came to age fighting for her life and her liberty.  She didn't simply grow up and leave to fulfill a dream as Richard had long ago.  She had struggled, giving up everything to have _any_ kind of life outside that brutal one.  He also understood why she had been so able to sacrifice herself, her body, her very soul.  She had feared very little, if anything; even to her doom, she had walked with her head held high, because she could.  Apparently, nothing would be worse than her homeworld.  Nothing would match what had been her first experiences in life.

    _We're going back in the rift, into battle. We're not coming back."_

    _"I know the mission. These are my orders, Lieutenant."_

    _"But I don't want you here."_

    _"You_ need _me here. Show me someone on your crew who can do the job better than I can."_

    Nobody could.  Nobody could....

    Releasing his breath, wiping at his face, Richard suddenly wondered if he really wanted to do this--any of it.  Even his own hard memories of the woman he had known seemed useless now with the face of her counterpart before him.  He gazed long at Cadet Yar, yet saw clearly in his mind's eye the same look Tasha aimed at him when she left the holding bay with Deviar, left all she was...all he knew.

    _"How do any of us know what we are, Richard?"_ she had sighed years later.  _"And what really do you know about me?"_

    Eight years had passed since she had spoken those words, and the past and the future now lay before him, an official file, a weary conscience, a life forsaken, another starting brightly only soon to be extinguished, each intertwined.

    Reaching out, he quietly encrypted the file.

    "Daddy, come pay boks!"

    Looking down, Richard saw that Anthony had pulled possibly every block and bucket on the planet into the middle of the den.  When he had done that, Richard couldn't guess, but a smile found him despite the hour of cleanup he was looking at.  His son was absolutely proud of his work and wanted to share it with him.

    "Great idea, buddy!"  Moving from his chair to his hands and knees, he crawled around and played a grab for his little boy's foot, growling heartily.  The toddler squealed and dashed into the pile of polyfiber, dispersing the chaos further.

* * *

  


    "Your kind might find her beautiful, too, but she cannot be yours, Castillo."

    Breaking his gaze at the garden, Castillo turned a thin stare at Kivos, who had not turned from the view.  "I know that," he coolly replied.

    "Then why do you long for her?  --Do not deny it.  I have watched you these four years.  You have become an excellent tevol'oc and comrade in the barracks, but never a friend to the woman who saved you to this duty, and this is very curious."

    "What are you talking about?"

    "If you truly loved, you would release her from your desire."  Kivos tipped his head the other way.  "But perhaps you do not truly love.  If it is but desire, it will never be served.  She is havaln in the house of a general.  She was lost to you the day she accepted her place.  You will not have her."

    "I know that, Kivos.  I have known that for a long time."  He sighed.  "Perhaps I only like to suffer."

    Kivos' large hand touched Castillo's shoulder.  "I am sorry, Castillo."

    Castillo did not shirk the touch, but he did look back at the garden, where the willowy vision in teal and gold drifted up the rows and toward the mall, the shadow of her servant close behind.  "I don't know why..." he said softly, falling into his native tongue as he felt his chest tighten perilously.  "I've been telling myself since the first year what you're telling me now, but I can't...give up on her.  I miss her.  I miss all of us."

    Kivos squeezed his shoulder.  "Come, my friend.  Second shift will begin soon."

    He did go, as he always did, repeatedly telling himself not to look back. 

    But he always did that, too....

* * *

  


    A year later, Tasha's information was easier to sift through.  Her face, still young and fair, had filled in during her education and training in security, probably both the result of excellent nutrition and a stable environment.  She kept her blond hair quite short, very practical.  Her posture was magnificent.  She was well on her way.

    She would die within eight years.

    He could do nothing but watch it happen. 

    The more he read, and the more he watched relations and treaties unfold around them and read about discoveries and projects happening all around the Federation, the more Richard knew that Tasha _was_ meant to come back with them.  Her particular talents secured the impression they'd had to make on the Klingons, securing the peace that had been missing in her "wrong" timeline, securing a peace she would never see and probably couldn't even imagine.  But that wasn't all of why she came with them.  He never did learn all the details behind her reasoning to make the choices she had, but he did know that in the "right" timeline, she had died, and in both, she had no home or family.  But she _had_ known how imperative it was to restore the future--and keep it that way.  She just went into it knowing that there was absolutely nothing for her to lose, so she gave everything and never looked back.

    _"I could not go with you even if I wanted to.  You know this--you've always known this."_

    Still, with time and more consideration, Richard suspected there was more to it.  Maybe at first he arrogantly imagined she had come back for him, or maybe in those lonely, long winters, he'd _wanted_ to think it.  But Tasha had been far too practical for such an idea.  Perhaps she wanted a more glorious death than whatever had been fated her for counterpart.  But Tasha had been too generous to want such honors for herself.  No, something else had lain behind her motives, something held close and certain during their long years on Romulus, all of which she took to her grave, and unwittingly would take to another grave.  All gone...

    _"Done...  Done."_

    Every morning, Richard woke up next to his beautiful wife and heard the coos and clamor of his boys in their room, and he knew all over again that the lasting peace he enjoyed was because of Tasha's sacrifices.  Sometimes it was too much to think about, that circle of events.  Of course, he knew better than to do so very often.  It was easier just to enjoy what he had, and never stop being thankful for it.

    As such, his life went on.  Peter sprang into toddlerhood, Anthony started school, and Mona earned a promotion to lead facilitator, improving her hours and giving her a great opportunity to expand her connections in the local colonial group.  Richard's position with the local administration remained the same by design, so he would have no difficulty being at home for Mona and the boys. 

    Far away, a straight-backed cadet called Natasha Yar graduated Starfleet. 

    Richard viewed the graduation over the comm.  It was the middle of the night, and he had a mug of strong cinnamon tea pressed between his palms.  Glassy-eyed, he watched her receive her honors and move on.  He sat there for some time afterward, unable to think much more about it, unable to feel more than...heaviness. 

    Finally, he sighed and went back to bed, wondering why he'd bothered, wondering when she'd die, and how it would happen. 

    Did this Yar imagine her doom at all?  Or was she moving to her end with blissful ignorance?

    _"I am not supposed to be alive, Richard.  Don't you see that?  I obviously was meant to help you, but no more than that.  There is nothing for me past this.  Eventually, my fate will catch up with me."_

    _"Are you so sure about that, Tasha?"_

    _"I will not outlive my duty, Richard.  Believe it."_

    Or was she like the one he had known, certain and even determined to meet that fate head on?

    Somehow, he fell straight to sleep, and he woke well rested with a smile and a kiss for Mona, who then turned to get out of bed before she fell back to sleep.  "It's not the weekend yet," she chided herself.  Hearing the boys up and about, smelling the coffee, ready and waiting in the replicator, he slid out of bed, too, and grabbed his robe off the bedpost.

    That other life was gone.  Only death lay behind him.  His life on Hannev was very much alive.

    Every day fell gratefully into the next--pleasant, busy, full of picnics, projects, meetings and school functions, breakfast, dinner, cleaning up and going to sleep, and then starting it all over again.  Aside from the images he captured and displayed about the house that proved some progression of time, he'd have hardly felt that as much time had passed as it had. 

    Troubles and disruptions sometimes rattled him; he had come to depend on regularity and routine.  They managed their way through them, mainly thanks to Mona's simple approach to life and her precious ability to never over-think an issue.  When Anthony refused all vegetables, she did not cajole him, but blended them into his strawberry milkshakes.  When Peter had a minor disciplinary issue at school, she did not punish him, but held a family meeting--grandparents and uncles included--to talk casually about how good behavior benefited everyone.  When his mother grew to need a little more assistance in her hundredth year, Richard and Mona got together and discussed what to do...in all of two minutes.

    "Well," Mona said with a definitive breath, "it seems if Lily doesn't want to pack and come to us, we should go to her, yes?"

    Richard was surprised.  "You're sure?  It's not convenient to the transport, and you'll have to take the boys with you to get them to school--and I'll need to take Peter with me for another couple of years.  I want to be there for Mom--"

    "And that's all that matters.  It's the rest of her life we're talking about.  She's had a great one.  Let's keep it that way.  We're still young.  We'll adjust.  The boys will have grandma right next door and you'll have some help during the day over school breaks.  We'll be closer to my parents, too.  It works for everyone."

    There were many reasons why he loved his wife.  Her sense and goodness were but two, though he was regularly most thankful for them.  Everything was so easy between them, with their family and their friends and utterly stable, regular life.  It was hardly a question whether he'd like more of that. 

    "I'll make the calls," he told her and leaned over to give her a kiss.

* * *

  


    "I never thought you would take so well to life here," said Lily Castillo.

    Richard grinned fondly at her.

    She was sitting on her side porch stoop in her long gauze cardigan, her arms wrapped around her legs and her shoulder touching her son's as they watched the house's construction across the field and within a ring of trees.  It was summer, and the heat had eased a bit with a few days of rain, which now misted the morning sun and partially obscured the sight of the frame five hundred meters away and through a line of shimmering conifers, rising steadily, piece by piece.  The movement of beams on end-pin antigravs locking into platforms and the busy sounds of riveting and reinforcing were much to the boys' entertainment on the balcony above with Mona.  Their giggles and cries of "Look!  Look!" echoed down at minute intervals.

    Below, Richard and his mother remained at the ready for the architectural crew, there to answer questions and offer refreshments, though requests had not come for a long while.  They enjoyed the wait, though.  When he was in town and busy with his growing family, Richard and his mother had not had much time to simply share the time.  She of course never minded, but he felt bad, for she had been his only thought of home when he'd been away.

    "The gable's going to look good from the south," he said.

    "You're painting it green still?" Lily asked him.

    "Yeah.  We'd rather it blended in."

    "That's a nice thought, though I admit, it's still a little strange sometimes to think of you wanting to blend into anything."

    "How do you figure that?" he asked.

    She laughed, a quiet little laugh that had grown on her lately, and her hazel eyes shone with the smile that followed.  "You were _always_ the one out in front, of course, Richard.  When you were just a little thing Peter's age, your father and I knew you'd be the one making a path out there, in Starfleet, like he had.  You never settled for anything that seemed ordinary to you."  Looking over at her son, her smile grew.  "You'd always had your eyes on _your_ stars, away from here.  I wasn't surprised you became a technician, then an officer, a pilot, daring, adventurous, right there in the front, moving straight ahead, as always.  Now look at you, all grown up, and home at last, ready to rest after all those years out there."

    He chuckled.  "Yeah, look at me now."

    "I am proud of you," she assured him.  Then she shrugged.  "But--and I hope you don't take this the wrong way, Richard--I always felt like despite all you've made for yourself and Mona and the boys, that not all of you has been here.  Do you know what I mean?  Not gravely different, but...missing something."

    Richard put his arm around her and gave her a squeeze.  "I came back whole, Mom.  Just I brought back some baggage, not all bad."

    "But some was," she noted.

    "Some..." he started, his lips still inclined to a grin.  "Some things were just not meant to end up like we'd wanted at the time.  -- _At the time._ Now I know it was better that way."

    Lily nodded slowly, searching him now with her stare.  "Who did you leave out there, honey?"

    Richard drew a deep breath, his eyes on the treetops.  "Very good friends, Mom," he answered.  He knew his mother well enough to know she would suspect more to it.  He also knew she would never press him.  Still, he added, "Very good friends, and a great captain.  What they gave up was tremendous.  Hell, none of us expected to get back.  We all had been prepared to die--we'd expected to.  That's a lot of think about in itself."

    "You were lucky," she said, still quiet.  "You learned how important life was--home, too."

    He grimaced.  "Yeah, that too."

    "And now you even leave town to live out here," Lily smiled.  "I hardly believed you when you told me what you and Mona were up to."

    "Yeah, well..." Richard squeezed his mother's shoulders again.  "Mona's been angling for an illegal firepit of her own, and even my connections wouldn't let her get away with one on Gribbom Lane."

    Lily laughed.  "You'll have none of that here, either!  Tony's has already threatened half of Tristad with utter destruction!"

    "And someone's got to support the tradition," he returned and got to his feet when the foreman approached the edge of his mother's yard.

* * *

  


    The house was completed, and plants were settled happily into the ground, all lush colors of orange, red and blue--Mona's favorites.  The Castillo family, too, settled into their new location with typical ease, as Mona had predicted.  The commute took a little getting used to, but the exercise was good.  He walked to the transport and got to town with his brother-in-law now, a great bonus they hadn't thought of.  His mother had become an essential part of the boys' everyday life, giving them new diversions and interests.  Her garden and the woods behind the property were places of great exploration and discovery, as they had been for him when he was their age. 

    On that same treeline, Richard got the urge to build a playhouse for the boys from scratch, from the frame to the walls and the fittings.  They'd long ago taken the one from his childhood down.  Seeing Anthony come to just the right age to climb trees, Richard designed a foothold scale entrance and an old-fashioned, hand-cranked pulley lift for any visitors, easily lifting up to eighty kilograms.  He and his ecstatic six year-old designed all the bells and whistles together, making it the "most awesome treehouse in all the three colonies."

    With his mother and Peter watching, he slid in the last of the solar plates on the angled overhang.  Anthony held the plate lift steady while his father, one foot on the ladder, the other on the cross-beam, ratcheted the bolts in. 

    It was good work; it felt great to be in the sun again after the yearly conferences and a month of getting things moved around in the new house.  The last few winters, Richard had become a little restless.  For every obvious reason, the cold took him back.  He felt the chill deep in his spine, the early twilight made him sleep with visions of the stars from that other angle, and his blanket would feel like his cloak, heavy on his shoulders as he walked the court behind the gate in the unending dim, time after time telling himself that she was gone and he had moved on, meanwhile wondering if he would see her and dreading that he would, too.  But the deception and dread were normal to him there, and so then he would wonder where his sandals were, and if he had enough time for one last turn before the signal to go to shift.

    Soon, she would appear, her gait slow but sure-footed, wearing her gold cloak and boots, her hands tucked into her opposite sleeves.  Her face, deep within her hood, would only briefly confirm her presence until she'd come from the paths and into the mall.  Then her eyes would turn toward him and hold him gently.  Then she would smile and whisper, _"Richard..."_

    His eyes would open in the dark, and he'd activate the light to look at his hands.  To his relief, they had no hint of stain, but rather had been tanned by his homeworld's rich sun.  He would close his eyes again and see her staring at him again, solid, empty, angry, and see her hand flying toward him...

    _"I have warned you before, and now for the last time:  Do_ not _question my honor or the honor of those I value,"_ she'd hissed as he caught the blood pouring from his nose.  Without remorse, she'd walked away, leaving him knowing at last there was no salvation...

    To the last day, she called him by his name.  To the last day, she asked after him.  To the last day, she knew him better than he knew himself.

    _"Richard, you need to let go,"_ she had told him, knowing that he wouldn't.

    He turned, feeling the bitter wind scraping his neck and shoulders.

    But it was not wind.

    He groped for the covers he'd thrown off and yanked them back up.  Immediately, he warmed.

    The room glowed a little from the faintest dawn, soon to grace the window behind him.  The alarm would beep in a minute.

    Gratefully, he opened his eyes once more and see his wife's dark curls splayed over her pillow, her smooth shoulder and arm about their quilt, made by her mother for their wedding present.  Scooting close, spooning up to her silken warmth, he wrapped his arm around her, kissed her soft neck, so real and near.

    With that, the winter passed.

    Now the spring was high and ripe, and the ratcheting was almost done, and he neatly forgot that he'd been thinking of that time again.  The present wore enough perfection that he hardly bothered to wonder about tomorrow.

    "I have the two, Anthony, you can let go now."

    "Okay, Daddy!"

    Just as the ropes slackened, his wife came out onto the back terrace and called out, "Richard!  You have a communiqué from a Commander Lasky in San Francisco."

    Without thinking, Richard secured the line, dropped his ratchet and slid down the ladder.  "Mom, yell if the wind picks up," he said and rushed into the house, passing Mona.

    On second thought, he backed up and kissed Mona's cheek.  "Thanks, honey."

    He felt her eyes follow him, but he didn't pay it any mind.  A message from Lasky meant only one thing, and it became all he minded until he got into his office and opened the message and file he had been forwarded.

    In fact, he barely thought about her noticing his haste, that he'd dropped his tools into the dirt or that he let his office door slam shut behind him with his beloved wife on the other side.  Rather, he relaxed at the blast of cool air that met his descent into his chair.  Despite his appreciation of warmth and sun, he did like to keep his office on the cool side.  It helped him focus.  Not that he needed help focusing now.  He was entirely engaged and tapping in passcodes without looking at a single field.

    He had been running the sequence in his head for a few weeks, since the last communiqué came in.

    Only later did he wonder about any of it.

* * *

  


    "You were wrong to assume any more of me, Richard."

    "I've done nothing but cared what happened to you, even before Tokarel got his hands on you."

    "No, you have cared only about how the situation made _you_ feel."

    "And you've chosen to turn your back on everything you are."

    Tasha's gaze went unchanged at his accusation, though her posture grew straighter.  Standing before him in her usual gown and light cloak, her empty face haloed by a silver hood draped over rings of red tulium, she responded firmly, "I was the one to make the choice to become a consort and live with it.  I have turned my back on nothing."

    His hands tightened around his tools, but he was careful not to raise them when his anger rose in his chest.  "You made choices, sure!  --But maybe you wouldn't be psychologically crippled if you'd let me--"

    "We would all be dead had you been left to do anything."

    "Instead of only you?" he countered.

    "I live by my choices--and have well _before_ 'Tokarel got his hands on me.'" Backing off from him, she placed a trembling hand on the beam for support.  "I wanted nothing for myself," she finally replied, "and still want nothing, nothing but my dignity."

    "You're talking like a common tevol'oc."

    "I'm speaking like someone who understands reality," she countered, cutting a sharp stare back at him for the insult.  "Why do you continue to insist otherwise?  What else is there for me?  Tell me."

    "What else _is there_?"  Castillo glared at her now with complete disbelief.  "You can have a _life_!  A life outside of this...existence you've chosen.  Tasha, you're so much more than what they've made of you.  Can't you see that?  Can't you remember what you'd been, everything you've achieved?"

    "My memory has not been affected, Richard."

    "You're wasting yourself!"

    "Even wasted life would mean something to see you all safe someday.  It is the only reason I remained alive.  You know this, and you know why."

    "That's not good enough, Tasha!"

    "Stop calling me that," she charged, her patience at last wearing away.  "I accepted the endearment at the Academy and on my ship because I liked that people liked me enough to do that.  But I do not care for being liked anymore.  I only want peace--and you are selfish to deny me that."

    "You really think there's peace in being a consort?  Tasha--"

    "How many times do I have to tell you that I _am_ able to accept the life I choose to lead?  And how many times do I need to tell you my name before you learn it?"

    "Maybe, _Tasia_ , you also need to accept that I'm not going to give up on you after what you've done for us.  It's what I owe _you_ for what you've had to endure to keep us alive.  And if that means making you angry for caring more about your soul than you do, then I'll deal with that."

    "I asked for nothing from you in return for my duty," she reiterated.  Despite that remnant of fight, her head bent, and she shook it from side to side.  Her lips moved slightly, wanting words, but in the end, she could only still again.  "I have nothing left, and want nothing, and you are incapable of respecting that."

    At that, she lowered herself onto the bench, shaking with stress.  She seemed not to care that she looked weak or helpless, for maybe she _was_ that now.  Whatever she was, she did not resist when her servant's small, strong hands found her at last, taking her protectively by the shoulders.

    "You just can't leave well enough alone," Dacey hissed, darting her stare around them before settling her ire on him.  "You just have to badger her when she's finally regained her footing!"

    "You're not in this conversation," he rebutted.

    "The devil I'm not!  I'm her servant for as long as her shadow's at my feet, and I'll speak for her whenever I feel it necessary, _sir_."

    Tasha grabbed her hand.  "Take me, Servant," she commanded, almost inaudibly.  "I am finished here.  There is nothing left to say.  He has his own duty to attend to, and I want to rest."

    Dacey automatically moved around to escort her to her feet, but not without shooting one more skunk look at her former commanding officer.  "I obey you, Consort."

* * *

  


    She was there.  Tasha.

    She was there, and Mona was staring straight at her.

    _"I don't belong with you.  You belong with someone who will love you--and you truly love.  I am not that person."_

    He hadn't done anything wrong; even his thoughts had not crossed the line, but Richard felt his guilt, and his fear.  Then he wondered why in the world should he feel caution with his wife, the one person next to his mother that he loved without reserve....  Then again, _had_ he trusted her? 

    "What's going on?" he said.

    Mona's steady stare turned from the screen and found him.  "Who is this?" she asked.  Her voice accused him of nothing, but he knew she could easily be on the edge of judgment depending on his answer.

    "It's a kid I've been checking in on," he answered.  That much was the truth.  Not all of it, but enough.

    "Why?"

    "She's related to someone from my old crew.  I wanted to make sure she was okay."  Again, enough of a truth, and was the same thing he'd told Steve Lasky years ago.  But he wasn't married to Steve Lasky, and Steve Lasky wasn't a data management engineer.

    Mona tapped the console a couple of times and a Romulan incarnation of the young woman filled the other half of the screen.  "Related to this woman?" she asked.  "Forgive me if I'm wrong, but she doesn't look Starfleet to me."

    Now Richard felt his chest crush to see her--both of them--staring out at him, that familiar crush of hopelessness, and anger at a fate that refused to spare any of them. 

    Yet he could hear her voice, soft, sweet, and see her hand as it floated away from where she'd touched his cheek.  Her eyes were sad and solid, knowing, assured.  She knew what would happen...what should happen.  She had known all along, and stupid, ignorantly, he had sped the process.

    _"If I really hated you, Richard, I would hate you for not trusting me."_

    What hadn't he trusted her?  Why hadn't he been brave enough to trust her?  Had he always been that sort of person?  Or had he never really been tested before then?

    Either way, he had failed--failed in faith, failed her....

    _"Why do_ you _have any regret for what happened?  You had no part in my decision, Richard.  It was entirely mine, and I live with it, not you."_

    "Close that," he whispered.

    "I think I should know who this is, Richard."

    _"I never once betrayed you, not in my thoughts nor in my actions."_

    "I asked you, Mona, to close it," he said again, firmly.

    Furrowing her brow, Mona didn't move.  "Richard, tell me who she is."

    His eyes sank into the image, her deep, liquid gaze, mesmerizing him from within the brown liner that they'd etched into her skin.  Jewels hung about her hair and lay upon her fair shoulders, draping down to that jewel red gown that stole the breath of every man in eyeshot whenever she wore it.  She'd worn that array on the last day, chose it...chose to be where she was, where she'd sworn to live out her fate, committed and assured unto death.

    _"There's no room in my heart for regret; there shouldn't be in yours, either...."_

    Indeed, there shouldn't have been, but there was.  He hadn't believed in her resolution, nor in her character.  As she saw to their safety, she had moved away from him, for his safety and hers, or maybe as any sensible person should have.  He should have left her alone and been a support--a true friend who loved, not desired the impossible.  Even Kivos could see then what Richard knew only now.  He had felt he was justified in never giving up on her, but in truth, he'd been selfish.  He had poisoned her with his need and notions.  She might still be alive had he simply done as she had repeatedly asked of him....

    "Richard?" came a request, softer now.

    _"Richard,"_ she had breathed each time she came near, never a question...

    But she wasn't there, never would be and never would have been.

    More, more importantly, Mona had chosen to share her life with his, and so she _was_ there, wholly and true, and now she was staring at him, waiting for him.  She had always been sensible and patient that way, steady and a perfect foil for his emotional stirs.  But he knew he could endanger that.  ...He _had_ been endangering that.

    "She was on my old ship," he started in a whisper, trying to find a way to tell her and not tell her, not tell her too much... 

    But why should he hide it from her?  _Didn't_ he trust her with all his life?  Didn't he love her enough to give her all she asked for without shame?

    "On the Enterprise," Mona prompted when his pause grew into uncomfortable seconds.

    "Briefly," he said, still more softly than he intended to be.  Clearing his throat, he continued, "She came aboard our ship at Narendra.  She was captured along with the rest of us and taken to Romulus.  I wouldn't be here today were it not for her--none of us would.  She protected us; she gave her body to the commanding general in exchange for our lives...and she wound up losing everything she was as a result."

    Mona accepted that with a slow nod.  "Then who's this relative you're looking up?" 

    Collapsing a little, he reached out and pulled another chair around so he could face her.  Sitting now, he somberly took her slim hands into his.  He realized how much they'd never changed, not since the day they had married, since he swore himself to her for life. 

    For life...

    He coughed on his thick throat, fighting back the sting in his eyes.  "God, I'm so sorry, Mona.  I never meant to have secrets; I never planned to deceive you.  You and the kids are everything to me.  But I _have_ kept things from you.  I felt like I should--like I had to.  I never told you about her because...she..."  His eyes caught on the images again, the doomed youth, the doomed elder...  He swallowed and tore his gaze away to his wife, whose face had remained with great practice unchanged.  He squeezed her fingers, nodding to himself.  "I'm going to tell you something right now only because I trust you more than anyone, and I love you more than my life, and I will never, never hurt you as long as I can help it.  But I will keep going with this because...I need to.  I need to do this."

    "Is it Starfleet related?" she asked doubtfully.

    "Starfleet doesn't know about it, either," he told her.  "We decided--the surviving crew...  We all decided it'd be for the best if as few people as possible knew, if anyone.  We didn't want to take any risks."

    "Your old crew agreed with you to not say anything about her...because of what happened to her?"

    "That and because of where she'd come from, yeah."

    "And her?"

    "The young woman in that picture..."  He felt his eyes glint anew.  How close she now was to the Tasha he had known...to the one he'd fallen for and had lost.  The one that could never know about him, never know about the life she would lose...  "She's what the older one was supposed to be...in this temporal reality."

    Her eyes widening for a moment, then glancing between the images, visibly putting them together, Mona collected herself gave him a slow nod.  "Okay," she said softly.  "You can tell me, Richard; you can trust me.  I'm listening now."

    "I know," he whispered, bending to kiss her hand then press it to his cheek.  "I know."

* * *

  


    From that day, Mona was his confidante.  All that he had known, all that he had felt, all that Tasha had been and become, from her steady maintenance of their condition over the years to the last, bitter months, Mona understood.

    From his confession forward, she likewise learned about the details of Yar's life soon after he did.  A few years older than the usual officer starting out, Natasha Yar seemed prime for every advancement.  The junior ensign sailed into her full rank, and then into a promotion to lieutenant.  Even Richard was amazed at the reports of her brute competence and efficiency.  Among superiors in her department, she was a rising star and a perfect example of dedication and ethic.  Yar's impulsiveness and occasional brassiness would settle with experience, they said; her confidence and drive were perfectly tempered by an astute awareness of her limits and willingness to learn and get even better.  Her willingness to face any danger for the safety of her crew endeared her to the most tough-nosed commanders.

    It was little wonder she was plucked from another crew after so little time in her first assignment to serve on the new Flagship of the Federation, named the same as his old ship...the other ship as _it_ was supposed to be, too.  Richard got a creeping sensation in his bones to read about it, and to study its every feature and accolade.  The circle was closing, and the parallels were far closer than he'd expected--or wanted.

    Richard closed his inquiries after she reported for duty on the Enterprise-D.  She was the ship's security chief, just like in the other reality, and he recalled the woman's keen watchfulness enough to know that even a random query would probably give her pause.

    Not that his mind was anywhere but on Hannev II just then.  Mary Lilith was born that year--his angel, he immediately decided, right after he decided once and for all that his kids were what actually turned the world around on an axis and that his wife controlled the speed. 

    Mona returned to light duty after only six weeks thanks to a major malfunction in the south continent's mainframe.  With Anthony and Peter both in school all day now, Richard had been long out of the baby routine.  He caught up quickly, though, and took full advantage of his experience.  When his promotion to Colony Administrator was approved after Terrol's retirement, Richard moved a small nursery into the main office.  There, he reveled in the little milestones all over again between meetings and conferences, enjoyed every little look and reach and expression and shared them over the comm when Mona could break away, or surprised her when she got home.  Then he'd go pick up the boys and he'd finish his day with his family all together.

    Much to Mona's relief, her need to work with the systems physically did not take her from her infant and boys much longer than the standard half day.  She sometimes even left for an early start, coming home at lunch for a while then finishing her cleanup coding from the nearby branch or in their home office.

    It was on one lunch break that she called ahead and promised to bring some rolls and sausages from the deli, homemade spicy links grilled and bathed in chilies, just the way he liked them.  He'd agreed wholeheartedly, both for the menu and because he could dive into the files he'd let pile up a bit instead of stop to decide on and make dinner.  Within a half hour of awaiting that meal, however, he forgot about it.

    A half hour after that, Mona came through the den doors.  But he couldn't speak to her--couldn't speak at all. 

    Holding his sleeping his daughter in his arm, he pulled his teary gaze away from the screen that still stood on the report he'd read.  Somehow, time didn't pass for him, and even Mona's entrance seemed like a hologram of another life, another place, something not his. 

    She immediately went to him, kneeling by his seat to touch their baby daughter and look up to him.  "What's wrong, sweetheart?"  She glanced at his monitor then back to him.  "What happened?"

    She placed her hand on his leg, and the haze lifted.  She _was_ real, and he was _there_ , and the rest was over.  Done. 

    _"Done."_

    Richard sighed and took his wife's hand.  "Tasha's dead."

    "Oh honey, I'm so sorry."  Wrapping her arms around him, Mona embraced him, giving him leave at last to release a sob.

    "We knew it'd happen," he choked.  "I don't know why I'm...why I feel anything, now."

    She placed her hand on his cheek.  "No one said it should be easy to take, even when you know it's coming."

    "I didn't even know her."

    "I think you did--enough, at least, that you know what was lost."

    "Maybe," he nodded and pulled a thick breath.  Handing little Mary over, he wiped at his face, drying his eyes with the edge of his sleeve.  Looking at Mona again, he laughed a little.  "God, you've been so patient with me in all this."

    "I'm your wife," she gently reminded him.  "I'm supposed to at least try for it."

    How perfect she looked just then, Richard thought, with the baby in her arms and staring up to him with such an incredible understanding, it still took him by surprise.  How could he have ever thought of having loved anyone else?  All those past feelings paled in comparison.

    Wiping the vestiges of the wet from his eyes, his grin turned apologetic when his next thought hit him.  "I think I need to ask you to try a while longer."

    She smiled.  "Sweetheart, you've been thinking about this for so long, since before we met, so...  What do we need to do this time?"

    Impulsively, he touched her face, silently thanking her.  It only occurred to him after he had done it that he had picked that up, too, and never quite let go of it.  In that case, he didn't mind.  "There's one more thing I need to investigate before I let all of this go.  I know someone called Narun."

    "Where have I heard that name?"

    "Remember the Vulcan man who gave us the blessing when Anthony was born? Over the comm?"

    Her face lit.  "Yes!  That's right.  It was very good of him."

    "He's a good man--and a brave one.  I've been keeping up with him when I could over the years.  He was in the room next to mine at the Academy and we ate together, played chess, commiserated about our instructors in what ways a Vulcan could commiserate.  He went home about ten years ago to work with the government there; he's a reconnaissance agent now.  It probably won't come to anything, but I have to get in touch with him.  Maybe you can help track him down?"

    "I think I can, if there's a record available."

    "Great."  He breathed again, and then he nodded, more to himself as his head cleared.  With that, the future could be set in front of him as the past went behind, where it belonged, and the next step in his plan formed. 

    _"You didn't know what you were doing before and know less now, so stop expecting your tired happy ending to make_ you _feel better._

    "Then what?"

    Richard broke his reverie to catch his wife's attention once again.  Drawing a deep breath, he sighed, nodding to himself.  "Yeah, when that's done, I'll need to see if there are some amends I can make.  There's one in particular that's kind of overdue."

    Six more years would pass before he would commit to it.

* * *

  


    "Look!  Sheep!  Look, Mom!"

    "I see!"

    The cool, rounded countryside seemed endless for such a small region.  Hills followed hills past the road where the transporter had dropped them off.  They thought they'd counted seven past the town they'd just left.

    "Jus oor tha third rise to tha hweet gate; follow dun thar to tha stoon hus," said the rosy-cheeked woman at the transport, waving her thick hand to point.  "Dannae goer tha stile!  Tak tha dyke path by tha haugh to tha stane hoose doon thur."

    The family of five stared and nodded dumbly.

    The woman chortled.  "Ye speak English, aye?"

    Five rises later, in the middle of a rolling grassland with dots of thistles and the occasional tree, Richard and Mona looked at each other and shrugged.  Eventually, they'd hit the sea...they hoped, for instead of a "hoose" they came upon the gate...they thought.  Rather than something looking like a door, there was a rustic set of foot-width steps on rusty hinges in the middle of an endless stone wall.  They decided to follow the wall.

    "It's got to go somewhere," Mona said.

    Richard agreed, well past minding getting anywhere on time.  After twenty years on Hannev, much as he enjoyed being at home, it was good to travel a little, see Earth again.  San Francisco was beautiful and fun, but the kids were alight in those brilliant green fields, dreaming of knights and castles, princesses and wizards since they passed the ruined castle and turret in the town.  Neither parent corrected them, letting them enjoy their imaginations as they enjoyed that respite part of their "working vacation."  They strode hand-in-hand, feeling the cool, moist air and mild sun, and feeling their feet lightly depress the sod. 

    Soon the wall turned in where there seemed to be a fork in their path, one going up and over another hill, the other down.  There, a splatter of stone buildings bordered the bottom edge of a stretch of green that went as far as they could see.  On the near bottom corner of that rolling pasture sat a large stone house with a fenced garden around it.  Within the pasture were more sheep, bunching and spreading at random in the expanse like a swarm of black and white bees.  A man with a wide-brimmed hat strode steadily around them, whistling and signaling three furry, tricolor dogs, who zipped and zagged to nip the sheep into line.

    It _was_ like a storybook, Richard decided as he took in the living history, right down to the local girl coming down from the path on the other end of he fork.  The child, just a little older than Mary, had long, sable braids tied off in the middle with thick yarn, a blue wool jumper, white turtleneck and black riding boots.  That array and the PADD sleeve hung over her shoulder told him she was coming back from school.

    "Maybe we can ask directions," Richard suggested.

    "Or if we're still in the same country," Mona grinned.

    The girl approached with a plain-faced gaze, wondering but entirely unsurprised.  When she came close enough, Richard noticed she had slightly pointed ears.  "Good afternoon," she said politely, looking them over.

    "Hi," Richard replied.  "Excuse us, but do you know where Dr. Dacey Kerr lives?"

    "I do.  She's my ma."

    Richard coughed a laugh.  "Really!" he exclaimed and scoured his brain for that detail in Dacey's file.  He had learned to his great surprise and interest that Dacey was in fact a Starfleet consultant, but there was no mention of a child.  Had she married again?  There was nothing in her file about that, either.  "Is your mother home today?"

    "Aye, sir, she's in most afternoons, and my dad's home today, too," the girl told them.  Her inflection was like Dacey's had been--and thankfully far more understandable than the lady in town.  The girl started past them, giving them a wave.  "Come along and I'll show you in.  We're just this way."  Waving to the boys and Mary and luring them to hurry with the promise of biscuits and cream, she started them all down the hill to the farm they had been approaching.

    Richard furrowed his brow and looked back at the fork in the road.  "So it _is_ down there!" he remarked.  "It's not at all what they told us in the village."

    "You must've asked Mrs. Macy," the girl said, more worldly wise than even she probably thought herself to be, and slipping from her mannerly speech of a moment ago in her amusement.  "Standing at the transport, offering her expert local knowhow?  A pure prize, that one--a daftie and namore than that--loves to send visitors off all Sammy-knows-where.  Sent a few Andorians on a donner, once; they were found wandering down the Spey outside Craigellachie and gone all doolally.  Fair chance she took pity on you 'cause of your bairns, but only for that."

    Only half registering what she'd said, Richard laughed and nodded.  "Yeah, you're Dacey's kid."

    They walked down onto a knotted stone road and then around the big house to the rear, where a moss-grouted stone patio sprawled out from the back doors.  Near the outer edge sat a man and a woman working on PADDs.  The woman had a shock of bobbed black ringlets and was outfitted in a dark dress, a plaid shawl and tall, black boots.  Her fair face was set on her work, a PADD in one hand and a stylus in the other, and her heels were perched on the edge of the stone table before her.  She looked good--much better than Richard's last memory of her all those years ago.  The man beside her was the same Starfleet science officer from her file, so obviously that much was correct.  His golden skin and thinning blond hair likewise told Richard that their girl must be adopted. 

    A line of sheep passed behind them, and Dacey Kerr calmly pressed a hand to her ear as they passed.  She gave up the gesture and her repose for her daughter, whom she hugged tight, kissed and asked after her day.  The girl relinquished her bag to her mother then pointed with her chin behind her.  Dacey looked up--then looked up again.

    Richard grinned, letting Dacey catch on.  It didn't take long.

    "You!" she gasped.

    He grinned.  "Yeah, me."

    She checked him over again, obviously astounded, but at least pleasantly enough so that he believed she wouldn't turn him away.

    "Good to see you, Dacey."

    "Pardon, but..."  She let out another little gasp then got to her feet.  Leaning closer to him, she seemed to be trying to believe what she saw.  "What the devil are you doing here, sir?"  At that, though, she started in the quiet, quick voice he remembered well of her, "Of course, you're welcome.  Please!  --No, no.  Come in!  This is... --Bairns--kids--take some cider.  Aye, just there, and berries--and Chaldra's grannie's biscuits and cream.  Take what you like.  Plenty there and more inside.  Go on."  The moment they descended on the snacks, she swung a look back up at him.  "But damn you, sir!  Near twenty years and you donner into my garden one day, not a word nor warning!  What are you _doing_ here?" 

    He didn't answer at first, feeling that the curious people around them should be introduced first.  He'd been an administrator too long, he realized.  Important as it had been for him to bring his family all the way to Earth, he still wanted to be polite and settle everyone else's affairs before getting down to his business.

    The former Ensign Kerr's career path had not encouraged the same direction.  She introduced him to her husband and daughter and met his wife and children with real warmth and sincerity, and she served them all refreshments and laughed at her daughter's report of Mrs. Macy's antics.  All the while, he watched how her eyes returned to him, searching him, almost asking a few times, caught between happy to see him again and worried for bad news.  He knew that both were good preparation.

    Finally, once the kids had devoured the cookies and milk and ran off to "meet" the sheep, and their spouses had sat down to "talk shop," Castillo drew Dacey over to a corner of the patio, took a seat on the low stone wall and gave her some relief.

    "You ever heard from the Mindra or anyone on it?" he asked.

    Her brow flicked up to hear the name.  "I'd heard from Annok six years ago.  He came by for a short time."  At his look of curiosity, she paused and shook her head; then she continued, "He told me he'd not seen the Mindra since Naraga Station, that they'd gone deep and stayed that way.  I too hadn't come upon any mentions or leads in my line."

    "Did you look for any?"

    "No," she answered.  "I consult for Starfleet, but--"

    "Yeah, I know."

    "But sir," she continued firmly, "I didn't think it safe to root around in what wasn't handed to me; I didn't want to give any matter too much attention lest I attract any." 

    He nodded, understanding her unvoiced accusation.  "I've been careful, too.  There's a lot of activity lately, which is part of the reason why I couldn't get any information for a long time once I started looking.  Anyone poking around is going to make them shut the lid tighter, even for us."

    Dacey turned her stare askance.  "You went through Starfleet Command."

    "We just came from San Francisco, in fact," he admitted.

    "Right.  What's the flack, then?  It's got to be something if you've dragged yourself across two sectors after twenty years then bothered to come looking for me."

    "They did go deep," Richard told her, "but the Mindra didn't disappear entirely.  Granted, it took all these years to pick up a breadcrumb, but I have old friend with connections, Narun, who as it turns out has worked as an agent in Romulan space."

    Dacey's eyes narrowed.  "Commander Narun.  Aye, I've disseminated his work, met him couple of times, too."  She eyed him steadily now, probably figuring out everything she needed to without his going on, but wanting him to go on all the same.  "Fine agent," she added.

    "He was made for his career," Richard agreed.  "It took a while to convince him to start on this.  We've been talking for five years."

    "Yes?  And?"

    "He found Kalir."

    Her lips fell open.  "Is he contactable?"

    He dipped his head in a single nod.  "That much I know, yes.  I couldn't get much more, but after some conversations with his superiors, Narun lined up a meeting with a Commander Vular at Starbase 2 to discuss the matter privately.  Considering what happened out there--my part in how it played out--and since I you apparently have the clearance to vouch for me here and at Starbase 2..."

    Dacey's face broke into a wide, knowing smile.  "Ah, so _that's_ how you hopped through their hoop!  I'm at last recognizing you, sir!"

    Richard chuckled, more glad than anything she wasn't angry at him for involving her without her knowledge.  Indeed, it had been extremely useful--even more than he'd expected upon discovering the nature of her work.  Even then, he knew he should tell her, "I was also thinking about you, Dacey.  I knew that if we ever had anything in common, you'd also be interested in knowing how it ended, the truth."  His hands pressing down into his coat pockets, he shrugged, the remnants of his smile fading from his eyes.  "I owe you that much."

    Dacey gave him a nod of thanks.  "When do we leave?"

* * *

  


    In the warmth of the Enterprise-D guest suite lounge, before a spacious desk with the comforting thrum of a starship engine rumbling below him, Richard Castillo closed his eyes for a moment.  Leaning back in his seat, breathing deeply, he pressed the memory back where it belonged, warm in a life that grew sweeter with age from the floor of oaken service and bitter shurrat.

    Overall, he had been a very lucky man in his life.  As long as he still had his home to go to and his family to embrace when he got there, he knew he would continue to be that fortunate.  He wouldn't dare take for granted that others were not so blessed, and never would be.

    Pressing himself to stand, he moved across the room to the desk to contact his wife and children.

* * *

  


 _  
Coming Next: Chapter Four. Details  
© D'Alaire M., 2011  
swiftian@yahoo.com   
_


	4. Details

    "Me?  All I wanted was a home.  There was no such thing after my parents were killed.  I stayed in places, but I never called them home.  I didn't call it home where I was working, either, because no one stayed on trade vessels very long, and I didn't plan to be there forever, either.  I think of Starfleet as a home, though, in a way; even before I got to Earth, I thought I might, because I saw how officers acted with one another and...I wanted that.  I wanted their comfort and that kind of confidence.  That had saved me, in a way, made a place for me here.  --How?  Trying to get in gave me an aim, a goal; it made me find my best when I could have settled for less....  But 'less' wouldn't have been a life; it would never get me what I wanted.  Less would never have made me a person of worth."

    When she had said that, one morning over breakfast, she was unusually explanative but typically circumspect in what she chose to say.  Troi had felt an ocean of feeling behind it, however:  Pain, fear, determination, fondness, hatred, longing and gratitude all swam in the depths of her psyche, spinning and yet well-organized, assured and carefully laid out.  The otherwise forthright young woman never did want to reveal herself to people even while making herself sociable.  Indeed, from their first introduction, Troi easily understood that the lieutenant was quite guarded.  Still, her genuine kindness and generosity told Troi that her fierce sense of self-preservation had been learned by necessity.  She had not begun her life with her current mindset, but in a gentle place with parents who raised her lovingly.

    "Did you try to settle somewhere else when you left Turkana?" Troi had asked.

    "I thought I would in the beginning.  I didn't know anything outside of Turkana except for Earth, though, and that was just a little.  --We went there for a vacation when I was four.  It looked like Turkana had before the fall....  I didn't remember anything else."

    She had lied there, Troi sensed, but said nothing of it.

    "When I got off of Turkana, I just wanted to keep going, find something I could do and do it.  A kind lady on the ship I was on gave me some better ideas.  She convinced me I could get through the Academy.  She told me serving in Starfleet would serve my needs in a way no other place would, so she challenged me to work for an application.  And so, here I am."

    Troi smiled, but Tasha did not return the expression, even if her feelings for the lady she mentioned were full of gratitude and fondness.  There was an uncertain sense of longing, too...displaced but strong upon the mention of the ship.  Perhaps she had wanted to stay with the woman, but the woman wisely led her to a more industrious path? 

    It seemed likely, and so Troi mentally noted to ask her more about her another time.  A less patient psychologist might have followed up on the comment, but after six weeks of knowing The Enterprise's security chief, Troi knew that pushing the woman was worse than useless.  Prodding her in the wrong manner resulted in immediate ire that lasted in the form of patent distrust, even in the face of her duty and required manners.  Good-natured as she could be, the lieutenant had a toughness that went far deeper than her physical skills--a facet most focused on without looking further.  She did not bother to dislike a person, but cut them off without a shred of emotion.  She regretted nothing, even when she was in the wrong and genuinely apologetic.  She moved on without dwelling.

    It made her a superior security officer, a most efficient member of the senior staff.  What it made her outside of her professional demeanor was what continued to give Troi pause, so deeply shrouded was that truth.

    "You were lucky, then," Troi finished for her.

    "Luckier than most," was Tasha's reply before she pressed herself to stand and collected her tray.  "I'll see you later."

    "Yes.  Later."

    Troi watched her stride out of the room, sliding her tray into the reclamator on her way.  She had already changed her entire mood, back to business, on to things more stable, more predictable, more ready for her to command...and not prey upon her.  She was a mover for a purpose.

    Her lips turning thoughtfully up, Troi returned to her meal.  What a drastic puzzle the lieutenant had been when first Troi met her.  Of the thousand people on that ship, Yar's feelings were the most intense, and might have been chaotic were it not for the woman's very regimented, primary thinking.  Even in her passionate moments, she thought her words through before speaking them, and in her anger or confusion, she sank back emotionally.  What did present itself was more energy than extroversion.  She was in no way open.  Yet above it all was a great sense of worth and pride, a perfectly realized self-determination and desire to do good, easily seen once one simply took a little time with her.  _That_ she let people see.  _That_ she wanted people to know about her.

    But little else.  Little else.

    Rather, there was a great deal the Yar kept tucked away.  This was not unusual for someone with the chief's personality—and in fact, for department chiefs in general.  However, there was a great deal more lurking beneath the neat façade of that particular officer, and a heavy dose of wariness.  Troi had felt confident, though, that the young woman would learn to trust the people around her.  Someday, Troi hoped, Lieutenant Natasha Yar would feel secure enough to show her colors in full. 

    That would be an interesting day, good or bad...  
 

    Seven years later, sitting at her desk with a mug of aromatic tea, warm in her chair with her shoes slid off to the side, Commander Troi took that moment to finally collect some thoughts. 

    Indeed, Tasha had done great things in her short life, but those on the Enterprise who remembered and loved her would barely know about her most selfless acts.  That alone was difficult to consider.

    A good deal of it was.

    After hearing Mr. Castillo's incredible story, Troi had left the guest quarters and reported to the bridge directly per her captain's orders.  It had allowed her little time to digest the wave of information that had been put upon her, taking the known and both adding to and correcting it.

    In a way, it was a relief for Troi to be able to set that past aside for the while, to care for the things in her present, the things she _could_ affect a change upon.  She found herself walking to the turbolift more quickly than she usually did, drilling her focus into her duties again, and curious to know what the captain needed. 

    _"He stared at her as though he were going to crawl into her soul; he asked her out of the blue if she loved him, and she said no, but that she served him.  Then he asked her if she cared for him, and she said yes, of course she cared for him...."_

    Troi tapped the LED for the turbolift. 

    _"And she really believed it, and he looked satisfied with her...."_

    Troi stepped into the lift when it opened.  There, Ensign Taylor came in, greeting her cheerfully.  She probably did not hide her relief very well, and made a vague reference to a long day when he noticed her unease.

    "Esos looks like it'll offer us all a little break," he offered. 

    "Yes, the whole crew seems happy for the change in plans."

    "Are you still planning on coming to the party in the holodeck tonight?"

    Troi straightened.  She had forgotten about that.  "I should be able to make it, yes."

    "Kells would love to see you--but she knows how it is.  She'd understand if you got busy."

    "I'll be there," Troi told him, silently thanking him for helping her back to the present, to the things she needed to care for.

    At last focused, she arrived on the bridge and examined the information Captain Picard gave to her.  She answered his questions to his satisfaction and began a summary report on her analysis.  It was an interesting solution to elucidate, but she knew she was decreasingly on task even as she set into...and more data than she had been provided was required to complete it.  Excusing herself, she pressed her knees to stand.

    That other problem, that other past, festered despite her immediate purpose; it tricked at her mind, and she found herself, like Mr. Castillo, peering at the security station as she passed.  Gone was Ensign Ashton and again there was Tasha, standing solidly, evenly on both her feet, working her scans and reports with unparalleled focus.

    Ensign Ashton looked at her.  New to the Enterprise, she was still a little leery when she suspected she was target of the empath's attention.  "Yes, Commander?" she said. 

    Tasha was gone.

    "Nothing," Troi said quietly.  "Forgive me.  I didn't mean to distract you."

    Moving off the bridge to a rear office, Troi opened the console there and searched for the files in question.  As she read, her mind drifted back to the bridge, to Ashton's insecurity...to Tasha.  She remembered times how the former chief could stand for a full shift scanning and running diagnostics without more than a minute's break to move around the upper deck.  She had amazing stamina--mental as well as physical.  She had been trained in her youth to concentrate on what was directly before her, lest she miss a single detail, and redirect her body's cues to break from its assigned activity.

    _"Details can be the difference between life and death,"_ she had said another time, again in that usual matter of fact manner.  Basic values and pinpoint-perfect practice seem to have been Tasha's replacement for stability.  _"There were no breaks in the tunnels,"_ she had said. _"You couldn't go back to correct a mistake or redo something that you missed.  It was up to you to survive the day or not, to get the thing you needed or give it up and get away.  You couldn't count on anyone else to do it for you."_

    Tasha had matured in an urban underground, where rape was a daily curse and murder an occupational hazard.  There was nothing in the Federation (or many places outside of it) that could compare to what Natasha Yar had known as home for the barbaric decade following her parents' murders.  Later, they all had learned that she had a younger sister in tow, just a baby when it all began.  The model officer had deftly concealed this, omitting it from her records for a purpose they could never know.  Troi guessed it went back to her first impressions:  guarded, resilient, traumatized.

    "I don't go a day without thinking about them," Tasha had once returned coolly upon Troi's careless venture.  For a moment, she was exposed in that truth, an incredible blend of adoration, yearning and terror.  "They were my parents.  How couldn't I?"

    "I'm sorry," Troi had smoothly continued, letting those feelings swim in her mind.  It seemed to be the closest she had come to Tasha's self yet.  Even so, she apologized, "We got off the topic.  I didn't mean--"

    "It's okay.  I'm not angry."

    Again, Troi knew better.

    "I just don't like to remember those days," Tasha quietly added.

    _And yet, you always do_ , Troi silently understood.

    "It was...difficult."

    More difficult still was her search for the word to describe it.  At first drawing a blank, she panicked for a moment as her thoughts sped.  Troi took this in, watching how Tasha's face showed none of her conflict, which itself intrigued the counselor.  Certainly, her experience would be beyond description, but why the fear?

    "So many people died when the city fell," Troi searched.

    Tasha remained silent, and the sadness within her expanded, surrounding the anxiety.  Her eyes drifted across the room, stopping at a point far from there, back at Turkana.  The rush of adrenaline told Troi so.  The vividness of the memory Tasha kept within her was such that Troi could almost feel the child's feet running, choking on smoke and terror.  She could all but hear the screams and crashing, tearing metal and howling alarms before all went silent--and remained forever that way in the planet's warm sun.

    "Yes," Tasha finally said.  She recaptured Troi's gaze, but only briefly.  "Unfortunately, not everyone did."

    All that lived went into the dark, young Natasha Yar included.  She did not come out again for ten years.

    Troi watched her draw a breath, composing herself.  The damage for the moment remained palpable, though.  Tasha was still there, on that blighted world, rife with violence and unspeakable hatred.  For all Troi's imagination, the fall of the capital was likely well beyond what she could understand.  Whatever had happened to the little girl, the woman she had grown into had never stopped living it.

    "Would death have been preferable?"

    "Some days?" Tasha said, so soft now that she was almost inaudible.  Her feelings rang out within her again, and she froze, waiting....  "Some days, yes."

    The comm saved her a moment after her voice died away.  Springing to her feet, she flashed a little smile of reassurance toward Troi then strode out of the lounge, leaving the empath in the wake of the chief's unspoken horrors.  
 

    Those horrors still impressed Commander Troi, even as she completed her final reports and submitted them to the captain in his ready room.  Busy with the many arrangements needed not only for the Esos-III stay but also their upcoming destinations, now all rescheduled, Captain Picard merely thanked her for bringing it to him promptly.

    Troi left with even fewer words.

    As she moved to the turbolift, she glanced around the bridge.  Not for the first time, Troi realized how impressive everything in Starfleet would have been to a young woman like Tasha: neat but colorful, efficient but congenial, aimed toward exploration and positive movement.  When it became her everyday living, it must have inspired the never-ending sense of gratitude they all enjoyed.  Immediately upon her establishment on the Enterprise, she had, so deftly, organized her staff, and thereafter kept things firmly in their place, maintaining herself as a model of excellence, so all could remain in a state that she could monitor, if not control.  This was not unusual--rather, quite expected--for a department chief, but Tasha's feelings of need in her duty made it unique.

    For always, she must make things feel safe.

    Her energy spent, her thoughts once again allowed to simmer, Troi returned to her quarters.  Drawing off her tunic, she ordered a tea from the replicator on her way to her closet.  There, she took off her boots and hung the tunic neatly up.

    On the way back into her living space, she pulled a steaming mug from the replicator with a small sigh of no consequence.  While she did not share Mr. Castillo's resignation, she understood it.  Powerlessness could take many routes in a psyche.

    Glancing at her PADD, Troi made certain there were no more appointments upcoming before turning her attention to the lounge beside her bed.  She needed to rest, lest she never untangle any more of that mystery by the next day, when she suspected the two guests would have more time to talk.  She vacated her chair and set off to take a shower.  Two steps into her direction, however, she paused.  Looking over at her desk, she moved to it and lowered herself into her chair.  Her mug settled on the desk with her fingers at rest in the handle, Troi found herself staring at her console. 

    "Computer, open the personnel file of Lieutenant Natasha Yar," she quietly commanded.

    It appeared a moment later, and she tapped in her security code to access the psychological report she had posthumously inserted.  At the time, she had wondered if it was relevant to lock her many notes about Tasha in there, but now she was glad she had.  What she had learned, what Tasha had gone through, should not be lost for a valorous death.

    As their friendship formed and conversations between them grew relatively more intimate, Troi slowly became the only one aboard the Enterprise--likely the only one in Starfleet--privy to the less pleasant effects of her life on her homeworld.  Primarily, Troi was required to review all the crew's medical and psychological records, but gradually, Tasha had come to confide a few--not many, but important--details to her.  Not surprisingly, it continued to engage Troi's attention, and the more she interpreted what Tasha told her, the more it became clear how amazing Tasha's development to that point had been.

    "That's right, you entered the Academy a little later."

    "I was twenty," Tasha confirmed, a little flash of pride finding her at the reminder.

    "Was it very difficult to adjust after working on a cargo ship?"

    "It was...different.  Not as bad as when I started on the Patoro, though.  I had _everything_ to learn when I left Turkana."

    Troi sipped her tea then set it down.  "Like what?"

    "Everything."  Tasha leaned into the chair, her head propped against her hand.  In the otherwise abandoned Ten-Forward, their business finished sufficiently to allow them some refreshment, she felt secure enough to allow such repose.  Some recent experiences on the ship had redoubled her desire to appear as nothing but professional in front of her staff.  "I don't talk about this, but..."  Her eyes turned stubbornly askance, but a kind of need had sprung up in her, swirling within a flurry of memories.  "I barely had the education of Federation children--I wasn't six when I had last gone to school.  I knew how to read a little, and I learned more on my own, but it wasn't a priority.  I knew what I needed to know to get around in the tunnels, but not much more.  I could read and take apart panels, and I could do figures in my head, but I don't think I could get through a book.  --Isn't that strange?" 

    "It doesn't sound strange to me, considering how you lived."  Troi took another drink of tea, purposefully offhand now, feeling woman's need to talk even stronger now that she had started.  Tasha would never have divulged that she had been functionally illiterate without great inspiration.  And she wasn't done there.

    "I didn't understand what it was like to be healthy, and less about how to deal with people in everyday situations, how people interacted in a peaceful society."  Her lips twitched.  "I'd forgotten all of that.  I had needed to."

    Something had happened, Troi now understood.  Tasha needed to talk because something had happened.

    "At least I'd been lucky enough to learn some engineering and analysis.  They didn't have PADDs to teach on, so we had to mostly memorize what they told us well enough to apply it in the lower tunnels--to get around the cadres and to the supplies we needed."

    This Troi did not doubt.  Tasha still had an amazing ability to retain and recall complex information.  Her listening skills were unequaled outside of Data's.  The difference was that Tasha rarely commented on what she heard.  She simply absorbed.

    "It was all practical," Tasha admitted.  "But it was a good start.  When Desha first showed them to me, calculations on screen looked like random characters on a viewscreen, but I picked it up after I understood what everything meant.  Mrs. Zlenko would have been happy to hear about that."  She breathed the barest laugh.  "And most of the others wouldn't believe it.  None of us believed much outside of what we knew.  Maybe it helped us not long for something we couldn't have."

    It struck Troi, then--and then she was ashamed to realize she hadn't given it more than a passing thought before.  "You weren't the only orphan living in the tunnels.  You couldn't have been."

    The door shut at that.  Tasha became very still.  At length, she acknowledged, "There were many others like me."

    "And at your age...someone had to have taken care of you after your parents..."  She stopped.

    Her head still in her hand, her other hand balling into a fist, Tasha gave her a look.  "I took care of myself."

    "Always?"

    "I had help in the beginning, I and some others, but after that, I got my own food and water, clothes and whatever else was needed.  I shared it with the others who needed it, but no one had to provide for me."

    Troi felt her chest shrink at the force of the woman's glare:  Fear, dread and a knowledge of death, so sudden, dark as the tunnels she had been forced to survive in all of those years...with others like her.  How many was impossible to know, and with every second, the emotional wall around the topic tightened, and her anger at herself increased.  So Troi did not prod any further, there, but asked, "How couldn't the Federation have known about this?"

    "Because the Federation only communicated with the cadres, when they were still communicating," Tasha answered, sitting up, "and the cadres are full of lies.  They care about nothing but getting ahead and keeping what they think is theirs, so they told the Federation that all the survivors chose a side and lived with it.  A couple thousand who didn't were still down there when I got away.  I can't say how many there are now."

    "Perhaps something could be done, a humanitarian--"

    "Turkana isn't a member of the Federation anymore," Tasha cut in coolly.  Indeed, all of the repose of a minute ago was gone; the wall had resumed, even while she continued, "Unless the Turkanan clans incite hostilities with a Federation member, or if there is a formal request for aid that Starfleet is willing to incite hostilities with the clans to serve, there's nothing the Federation can do there, now.  Anything that happens would have to be an independent venture--and any action there could bring more harm to the people in the tunnels than leaving them there."

    Troi stared at her, realizing, "You've already spoken to people about this."

    Tasha shot her another meaningful glance, but then she shrugged and shook her head.  "I'll need a lot more than wishful thinking to do what I want, and Starfleet's hands are tied.  I was advised to let go, move on."  She blew a quick breath.  "The comfort is that no one there expects anything to change any time soon."

    Apparently she had accepted how thing must be, but her connection to the place would never be severed, Troi sensed, and hardly thought it unnatural.  The shot of anger she felt, too, was hardly blamable.  And yet...there was certain purpose there, too--intent and drive, and one unlike anything she exhibited in her duties.  Her firm sense of honor and determination was constant, but this particular intent came from deep in her heart.

    Troi's heart sped a few beats to understand it.  Tasha had _not_ moved on.  She wouldn't.

    And something had happened.

    Another layer of secrets, another level of intensity and the sheerest veil of hope, almost childlike, an imagined potential in a concrete world…

    "I'd like it if you kept this between us, by the way," Tasha finished quietly.

    "I wouldn't have spoken to anyone about it."

    Tasha nodded.  "Consider it confidential.  I have my reasons."

    Troi was glad just then that she trusted the woman's intent.  "It will remain between us.  I promise."  
 

    And so it had, even after death, for even in her own investigations, she found out how right Tasha had been about the impossibility of meddling with Turkanan affairs.  The leaders there, divided as they were, each took great pains to cast off their former allegiance.  The Federation had no rights there after their severance agreement with Turkana's leaders.  Most families on other worlds asking for information about their loved ones had been sent "death receipts," with the added grief of credits to compensate for their losses.  After the severance agreement, however, no information escaped.  To their knowledge, Tasha had been the only export of the former colony.

    Luckily, Tasha had found herself on a ship that provided her with all she needed to recover from her lost education, even as she worked for her passage.  She twice had credited the kindly attention of the captain's wife for taking her under her wing where she could and her husband would allow.  Though only a teenager, she an employee in the captain's eyes and he left it at that.  Grateful for that much, Tasha worked hard during her four and a half year tenure there.  Meanwhile, the captain's wife filled the young woman's spare time with a regimen of coursework and tutorials on how to function in Federation society.

    That same woman had enamored Tasha to the idea of joining Starfleet--a lofty, near impossible goal.  The challenge was just what the gamine had needed to stay out of trouble.  Through her sheer force of will and desire to be that "person of worth," Tasha learned and readjusted enough to not only get into the Academy, but excel at all she chose to care about, eventually earning her a place on the Federation's new flagship.  Her pride in her achievements and her gratitude to Starfleet and those who had helped her along the way were unmatched.

    "Where would I be if I hadn't been led here?" she'd mused another evening after they been left alone on a creaking dock.

    They were in the holodeck in a lovely, tropical recreation.  No particular world, it was certainly colorful and a little unreal.  Many of the crew were enjoying it, too.  Parents waded and chatted and children were splashing in a warm cove; a few other s dove into the sea from a floating dock.  Far down the shore, Will was showing Wesley the finer points of fishing--or she guessed it was so.  By the look of it, perhaps they were both learning something that time.

    Still smiling to herself, turning her face back toward the sea, Troi leaned against the dock post, feeling their pleasure at the holiday retreat, the warm wet breeze lapping at her skirt and hair.  Then she looked at the woman beside her.  Standing comfortably with her arms crossed, Tasha watched the shore steadily.  She knew how to swim, but she did not do it for recreation, so she did not long to dive in like the others.  Rather, her focus was on the children, who laughed and played along the sandy shore, barefoot and carefree.  Slowly then, the view turned in her memory, and a few bursts of excitement suggested perhaps she thought of her own childhood, so short in her experience.  It hurt her to think of it, and she pressed the emotion away for one of wondering.

    "I don't often waste time thinking about what could have been," she continued softly, "but...I can't not wonder sometimes."

    "If you hadn't been able to leave your homeworld?"

    Tasha's eyes steeled.  "I know where I'd be if I hadn't gotten away from _there_ ," she answered.  "I'd be dead.  I meant if I hadn't joined Starfleet."

    "You would have kept working on cargo ships, perhaps?"

    "Maybe."  Again, she thought long about it, her mind turning away, away from the water and the warm, clean air to something hard and closed in.  Yet, she felt no entrapment.  This place was familiar to her, as was the darkness, and the longing.  Always, there was longing.  "But I wouldn't be like I am now.  If I hadn't been led to Starfleet, I would have drifted...and...I wouldn't have been satisfied there.  I would have always wished I could do more....  She knew that."

    Troi gazed at her.  Indeed, Tasha was far away, and the sadness there seemed bottomless.  But something had made her consider her purposes in Starfleet.  Something was making her analyze her decisions.

    As though to throw off all of Troi's suspicions, Tasha shook her head and coughed a laugh.  "Not that It matters, what could have been," she remarked.  It was no lie, Troi knew.  Tasha took no good thing in her life for granted.  "I'm here, and I'm _not_ there.  Sometimes I have to remind myself."

    "Yes," Troi softly acknowledged. 

    Indeed, as much as Tasha extolled the virtues of living in the present--like a mantra, she lectured at least one ensign daily to "accept what happened, fix the problems and move on"--Troi felt Turkana's hold on her, a grip that Tasha hardly resisted, though it gave her no peace.  And she imagined again what Natasha Yar might have been like had her homeworld never fallen, or simply had her parents had never been killed and they had been able to escape that world together.  Troi suspected the girl would have been gentle and studious but certainly cheerful, for there was something that wanted to be light within that straight-backed professional, something that wanted to simply turn her face to the sun and slip off her cares.  There was something of that girl still within her...somewhere.

    Despite the moment's laughter, that girl was not on the dock with Troi, but was tucked safely away, and the momentary humor was gone, too.  Tasha's eyes set onto the children again, her focus returned and the readiness reasserted itself in her posture.  "I should double check the safety protocols for these programs," she said, almost to herself.  "Lieutenant Bahaal is in charge of checking the programming, right?"

    "I believe she is, yes," Troi said quietly, still gazing at Tasha.

    Again, Troi wondered how a mere five year-old could have shed her childhood and learned her present discipline and physicality so well without being left permanently scathed.  Necessity was one thing, nature was another, but she possessed a structure and formality that was unusual in a human of her age and background.  Still, Tasha had said that she had been like that since she was a child, so the Academy could not be credited.  Tasha's slavish adherence to her mantras told Troi she had to have learned them by rote and at an age when she did not question.  But where?  From whom?

    These were but a few of the many questions that Troi was still puzzling out of Tasha as they approached a half-year of friendship.  
 

    "No.  There's nothing to find."

    "Are you certain?  I was under the impression--"

    "You assume too much."

    "I think just looking wouldn't--"

    "And I said _don't_!"

    "I apologize," Troi said suddenly, feeling Tasha's fury.  For the first time, it was aimed directly at her, and the threat she felt was real.  Tasha was very close to losing control.  "I didn't mean to--"

    "You meant to discuss what you know the answer to already--what I don't want to discuss!" Tasha snapped, closing the small distance between them to glare down at the counselor.  "My parents are dead and Turkana was a living hell.  I lost everything there:  There's nothing left and nothing to look for.  That's all you need to know!"

    Her hands jerked, but she withheld them and backed off.  Her face ghosted her fear, and a flash of a regret.  Then she turned away.

    Troi watch the chief stride away and punch he LED for the turbolift.  Her breaths were coming in heaves for several seconds after he stopped as she forced herself to get herself under control again.  She did not look back, though she knew Troi was watching her.  Troi could almost feel Tasha challenging her to try again; at the same time, she mentally warned the counselor not to dare approaching her.

    Troi collected herself, too.  She had made a mistake, and she knew it.

    She had asked, merely curious, if her parents had any siblings, or if she could make an inquiry and see if Tasha has any living relatives.  Worse, she had taken the question outside the safety of a private space.  Even knowing Tasha as she did, Troi sometimes was beguiled by that layer of control.  Just then, it had evaporated like air vented to open space upon the mention of family, and for a moment, she did not know if Tasha would actually strike her.  Her flash of anger was such that Troi truly expected it. 

    It was unlike the Tasha she knew.  Or did she know Tasha as well as she thought she was coming to?

    What Troi had learned over the months and was reminded of that day was that something most disturbing lay deep within the security chief's psyche, and she lived it regularly while keeping it tightly secret, locked behind the impenetrable facade she maintained with great skill, even in her most unguarded moments.  Any intrusions _there_ would meet a certain fight. 

    Troi had inadvertently come close a few times by then, which was as unsurprising as it was troubling to the counselor.  With each error on her part, she was coming to understand the shape of the incubus, though even she could hardly guess at its reality.

    So with great care did Troi plan to address her concerns.  Over the next few weeks, she let Tasha's ire fade and made herself quietly conciliatory to her.  Through more conversations, offhand conversations without apparent intent but with a particular effort at paying attention to every reaction and every release, Troi was able to collect many more impressions.  During their duty shifts, too, through their many missions, she waited, noting how Tasha developed as an officer and as a friend to those who interacted with her regularly--as well as a wonder to those who didn't.  She examined how that social progress ironically met a tighter restraint of her feelings and words.  Even as she ostensibly relaxed, her emotional openness eclipsed; even as her life opened and her ambitions were fulfilled, her anxiety quietly pooled, and her defenses strengthened.

    Was she ready for what a dynamic Starfleet career promised?  Adept at high-pressure situations, ethical to the core, skilled at working with a variety of personalities and ranks and fearless in meeting every challenge laid before her, there was no question about her handling her duties.  Though, her ability and personality had never been in question.  Rather, command offered different psychological trials, more subtle, more targeted challenges.  Troi spent several encounters and staff meetings watching and wondering if the security chief would be able to overcome that next hurdle. 

    "Why are you going there again?" was Tasha's reply to Troi's ginger start, which happened soon after they relaxed into the cushions of Ten Forward.  Empty late at night, Tasha had allowed herself the rare opportunity to rest her feet on the table, rocking the edge between the heels and soles of her boots.  The rest of her body was reclined in the chair, her hands folded on her waist.

    "I think we need to talk about it."

    Tasha turned a stare, that look that was at once cautious but curious, Troi's way.  "We're friends, Deanna.  --Or I like to think we are.  But you keep trying to analyze me when you know I don't want to be your patient, and I don't like that."

    "You don't want to be _anyone's_ patient," Troi countered, gentler still for Tasha's growing unease.  "And yet, there are issues you'll need to overcome if you plan to advance in Starfleet.  You're remarkably well adjusted, and you have overcome every obstacle you needed to get _here_ ; but emotionally, psychologically, you're not ready to go further, and your weaknesses _will_ begin to show if you don't address them, no matter where you are, or what you're doing."

    Tasha stared at her for several seconds, digesting that.  She did not ask for details, for the information caused her no actual worry.  Rather, her concerns were deeper, long present, and now they backed her into an emotional corner, from which she could fight if need be.  "Do you think you're the one to help me avoid it?"

    "Only if you want me to.  I'm only offering help, because we're friends."

    "If we weren't?"

    "I would recommend an independent psychological evaluation at your next assessment.  But yes, because we're friends, I wanted to talk to you first."

    "Thank you."  The crispness had returned.  "I'll ask you for help when I want it."

    "Actually, you'll ask me when you _need_ it.  I can only hope I'm here when that happens, so I can still be a friend, and you'll feel safe."

    Again, Tasha was silenced, and her stare drew across the room.  Troi watched, knowing now that behind her facade, Tasha was still at war, always on the watch, never relenting her guard, ready for the fight that she had never actually abandoned.  As the current campaign waged, her entire being grew dark and chilled, and that undiminished trauma rose in the shadow.  Strong and experienced, the anxiety also put up a noble resistance, and anger joined it.  Tasha held onto a great deal of anger.  Like the fear, it had helped to protect her.

    At the same time, the woman had a very different idea of herself, a person she did not let others see.  She shielded this vision, firm in her embrace, deep within her.  Seven months after their introduction at Utopia Planitia, Troi could tell that Tasha knew Troi could sense those things, and she knew that those were only some of the "issues" Troi had pointed out to her, so paranoia mixed with the rest and settled into her stone-still frame.  Overall, "safe" had special meaning to her, and that idea comforted all the rest, enough that she could calm herself and resume her usual posture.

    "If you're not here, I'll find you," she promised at last, "when I need to."

    Troi smiled and nodded, leaving it at that.  She did not doubt that Tasha meant what she said, and would keep her promise.

    Tasha was dead ten days later.  
 

    Natasha Yar's memorial had been simple and private, per her well-detailed directive, and full of the goodness and encouragement the senior staff all knew of her.  She had made no mentions of those she had worked with every day in security aside from Worf, nor of any of her many acquaintance among the rest of the crew.  To them, she would simply be gone.  To the small group of mourners she did recognize, she had left only the impression she desired--a positive, confident portrait of an officer.  Troi watched, in tears, knowing how much more was lost, so much promise, so many secrets, some of which she now must live with.

    Her effects and last wishes had consisted of a single, code-sealed box that she had kept beside her bed.  Data had dutifully taken care of Tasha's orders, which was to send the box to Dr. Dmitriy Kaskіv, an agricultural engineer working with a colony consulting group in the Beta Quadrant--no questions, no explanations.  Just send the box and ensure its receipt.  The recipient would know why it was sent and what to do with it.  Though the staff was curious about the bequeathal, Troi included, no one thought to interfere.  Dr. Kaskіv sent a short reply upon receipt--which itself was a curiosity:  Written on rustic paper with a graphite pencil, it had been sent via a courier on a supply barge.  Its flowing script, written in Earth East Slavic Unified, Data said, was meticulous at the risk of beautiful.  For Troi and Geordi, he translated:

>   
>  _Stardate 41715, Spring's end_   
> 
> 
>   
>  _Lieutenant Data,_   
> 
> 
>   
>  _I write to acknowledge Natasha's bequeathal, and thank you for sending it.  I hurt in my heart to  
>  know she no longer lives, and feel a great hole left behind, so vital and strong she was among us.   
>  I do not doubt you feel this, too.  None who know Natasha can relinquish her as easily as she  
>  would have wanted, and yet, I extend my deepest condolences to you and your crew._   
> 
> 
> Safe journey to you,
> 
> Dr. Dmitriy I. Kaskіv  
>  Exo-Agricultural Engineer, Soldora Group  
>  Nidira-2 Station  
> 

    Below the note was a sketch of a poppy lying in a pair of cupped hands.

    Had anyone desired an explanation from the man, they were only frustrated.  The man had only spoken of his affection for their mutual friend.  Data had run an inquiry to find an ordinary man in his mid-thirties from Kyiv who had been educated in Alberta, Canada, but nothing that connected him to Tasha.  Had they been intimate?  Were they related?  None could say.

    _Or can't I?_ Troi now wondered, seeing in her memory the letter neatly folding in Data's fingers, and then the back of a man in a dark grey suit with short, white-blond hair.  Then she remembered Tasha approaching him, smiling and reaching to take his hands, which met hers with a firm embrace.  They seemed to talk all at once without greeting, albeit hushed for such a happy reunion.  Troi could hardly make out a word they said, and they walked away without any notice of the people around them.

    In the brief moment she could discern her friend's emotions, Troi had felt Tasha's regard--but more than that, something she had not once felt in the lieutenant with any other of the crew or in any of their conversations:  Trust.  Real trust.  It surprised Troi in its purity before it faded away in the throng of other sensibilities there.

    Was that man Dr. Kaskiv?  His note certainly reflected a similar regard and understanding.  Busy with her own affairs, she had neglected to ask after the man, and months later did not connect the memory to the bequeathal.  Natasha took her memory of him to her grave.

    Seven years later, Troi was staring at the same man's image only moments after she sent the query.  His hair was still short and light blond, and he was still trim and dressed in dark grey for the file image.  His chiseled features had not suffered time, and his lips were turned just pleasantly enough to negate an air of seriousness.  His steely blue eyes belied his mouth's efforts, however.  He was still with the Soldora Group.  His wife was a communications specialist in the same office.  They had two children.  He was forty-three.  The family was currently settled on Earth.

    Troi closed the file.

    They had heard nothing more from Dr. Kasiv after the condolence.  Troi knew she should not contact him, now, too.  There was no point to opening a wound simply for curiosity's sake.

    Tasha was dead, but well-remembered.

    The crew moved on with their mission, their lives and careers. So had Dr. Kaskiv.

    Unbeknownst to them, it had not been the only time Tasha had died.  There had been another Natasha Yar living in their "reality," as Mr. Castillo had put it, who had made an ultimate sacrifice thirteen years before Tasha likewise risked and lost her life for the sake of her crew.  In other ways, too, the other Natasha seemed to be little different, according to Mr. Castillo's initial and heartfelt descriptions.  Plain-spoken, fearless but unassuming, tough but kind, a gentleness lying just beneath her straight posture and bold statements:  All these were right, but it was clear that Mr. Castillo did not have the opportunity to know her more intimately than that, to know that there was more to Natasha Yar.  Then again, very few did.

    Leaning back in her chair, Troi sipped her tea again.  She took just a little bit at a time now that only a small amount remained.

    Tasha had been a careful eater.  When she actually sat down to a full meal--which was not often--she would use every minute to actually eat, chewing slowly and completely.  Her idea that food was not to be taken for granted had remained with her.  How often must she have gone without food as a child?  She had insisted that others had not needed to provide for her.  How had she provided for herself?

    Troi stilled, her eyes closing for a moment.

    Commander Sela had let them know that another Natasha Yar had been out there, and Guinan had confirmed the intelligence, but they hadn't quite connected with the idea that the other woman would be so much like the woman they had known.  Troi felt a great heaviness within herself to consider the many ironies woven into that Natasha Yar's fate.

    How difficult it must have been, most of all, to willfully put aside a lifetime of war and resiliency and take on the values and practices of a valuable Romulan consort.  In the span of a conversation, that reality's Yar would have had to rethink herself, to turn entirely to an alien civilization and a duty completely unknown to her--and indeed, unknown to most in the Federation.  The culture of the consort was as difficult to understand as the rest of the Romulan caste system, where rank was everything and few apparently fought their fate even when locked into slavery after a life of privilege.  Death was the only other option.  Castillo did not say how many chose it, but judging by the final acts of Jovvok, there were some who understandably would rather die in disgrace than live as a slave.

    Those lower echelons were not the people Starfleet met during their encounters with Romulans.  Slaves, servants and consorts simply went unseen, particularly by outsiders.  When Troi was on the Khazara, she had been served by silent staff whose thinking was so balanced and who took themselves away so quickly that she had hardly noticed them.  In fact, only when Mr. Castillo mentioned that Dr. Kerr and Tasia traveled on the general's ship did she reconsider what those servers were.  Now she understood that they were either born into slavery or captured in battle and reeducated to serve with utter loyalty.  It was shaming to understand who had served her and she had not once thought about them, though there was little she might have done if she had.

    Aimless now, scrolling back to the header page, Troi again faced the visage of her friend.

    Usually, when she had looked at an image of Tasha, it had brought a bittersweet smile to her lips.  In her short time there, Tasha had made such an impression on the crew that, even years later, their memories were strong.  Now, true to Mr. Castillo's warning, seeing her face was difficult.  The file image appearing before her, Troi immediately recalled the image Castillo had showed her and felt her gut shrink in its eerie aura. 

    For all its differences, it melded into the younger incarnation's image perfectly, and in such a way that it was difficult _not_ to see the styles of the consort, the longer, dressed hairstyle, lined eyes with soft coral stained to the brow and her elegant silken dress and jewels.  Thirty years ago on Romulus, Troi understood, this was the height of fashion for civilian women.  The tulium was a classic luxury.  Troi's mother still wore precious tulium chains with great pride, often commenting on how they were delicate in appearance, but that they possessed a decided mass and certain warmth.  The wearer was always aware of its presence--a matter her mother also liked to make known.  The woman in Castillo's image wore multiple strands, hanging from the back of her tulium hair loops as well as draped subtly over her handsomely emphasized bosom.  The winged cloisonné scarab pinning up the side of her hair could be worth a year's credits for the compound's labor force, would they be compensated.

    Tasha would have been fascinated with such glamour, the elegance of the decorations and the richness of the cloth.  She would never have expected herself to ever take on such style, however, even should she formulate such a plan; she would have resisted the change for its impracticality as well as its implausibility.  For all her confidence, drive and curiosity, and for all she had done to get were she had, Tasha had owned a clear concept about what she perceived as her limits and rarely passed them.

    If the general had been as intelligent as he had been efficient, he had probably understood these things and worked to hone the alien woman to his specifications.  Their reliance on the strict schedule practiced by all in the compound would only have reinforced control.  Tasha had relished routine and order as much as she did safety; each thrived on the next.

    Troi stared long into her old friend's eyes, setting aside the consort at last.  Tasha was only twenty-seven when she was killed, but what she had done in her eleven years off of Turkana was nothing short of amazing, and something very few could fully appreciate, mainly thanks to her many omissions.  Tasha had cared nothing about that sort of recognition, though.  Her stalwart silence had been a protection of what had kept her together in the plagued tunnels of her homeworld and focused in all her achievements thereafter.  The problem with that plan was that eventually, those trusted defenses would have defeated her.

    _"If you're not here, I'll find you, when I need to."_

    How Troi had wanted that to happen, and not just for her curiosity, of course.  She had been completely frank when she told Tasha that she could go far, would she begin working to release the burden she held, things both dark and lovingly defended.

    Someday, she might have known real happiness again, as she had when she was very young, when she still possessed what she loved and the world was still hers.

    Troi dabbed away the water from the corners of her eyes.  So many did not get a chance in life--Tasha would be the first to testify to that--but years later, a lingering sadness laced Troi's memory, knowing how her friend's great potential and reward for her perseverance and tireless work had been cut short--twice over.  In both cases, Natasha Yar had given herself entirely for the well being of those whom she cared about without regret.  Troi could not help but regret it for her, despite the great good she had done.

    "Commander Riker to Commander Troi."

    "I'm here," she answered, at first more softly than she wanted to.  She cleared her throat.  "Yes, Will?"

    "It's time for Kells' party.  Like some company on the way over?"

    She had wanted to take some leave and rest, but she sighed away the failure of her plan without further complaint.  Perhaps the company of friends would be better, and she had sincerely wanted to wish the young lady a happy sixteenth birthday.  It was important to never take a good life for granted, to be thankful for those who enjoy the privilege of an excellent upbringing, particularly when others would be merely thankful for simply being alive.

    She tapped at her console, removing Tasha's face and file.  "Give me a minute to change."

* * *

_  
Coming Next: Chapter Five. Purpose  
© D'Alaire M., 2011  
swiftian@yahoo.com   
_


	5. Purpose

  Dr. Dacey Kerr caressed the photo that lay in her palm as she stared down at the faces smiling back at her.  She always said she loved each new portrait the best, but that one she had to say was the finest of all.  Certainly, they looked happy and alive, but the world was right under their feet that day; the future was but a step before them.

  The bartender came over then, her flowing blue tunic and hat all but overtaking her.  Dr. Kerr could only glance her way at first for the shrinking pit in her gut.  It disturbed her to no end to recognize those people even over a quarter century later--to recognize the other side of them, barely aged, while she had aged relentlessly.

  "You have a beautiful family," the bartender commented, having gotten a look at the image.

  "Thank you."

  "Can I get you anything?"

  "Whiskey, straight and neat--or as close as you can get to it.  Feeling a chill tonight."

  "I might have something under the bar," the other woman smiled and moved away.  A minute later, she set a wide amber carafe on the table.  "Mind if I sit with you?  It's been a while since I've enjoyed one."

  "Not at all," Dr. Kerr said with a generous wave of her hand.  With a sigh to check her nerve, she finally resolved to get over it and give the other woman her proper attention.  Inch for inch, the bartender was just what the professor remembered.  With another breath and a cough of a laugh to save the accusations that first sprang to her mind, she was able to speak again.  "Best not to drink alone.  I'm Dacey."

  "Guinan."

  "A pleasure."  Dr. Kerr enjoyed another needed pause then gestured to the seat across from her.

  Guinan sat and poured the glass with a slow, steady hand.  "You don't travel often," she observed.

  "Not terribly much," Dr. Kerr confirmed.  "Vulcan yearly, a couple of starbases when needed, but I prefer being home."

  "With your daughter," Guinan said, gesturing with a nod to the image.

  "Her, my husband, the family--the lot."  She drew the glass into her slender fingers, said "Slàinte," and then pulled a drink.  She sucked a breath on the rebound.  "That's a doss dose!" she remarked.  "I'll sleep tonight, certain."

  Guinan smiled, sipping hers.  "Traveling can be exciting in good and bad ways," she said.  "It can remind us how well much we appreciate the known universe."

  "The known universe," Dr. Kerr repeated then coughed a little laugh at the reminder Guinan had handily served her along with the liquor.  "Last time I was on one of these, 'known' certainly wasn't at back home."

  "But it had to be?"

  "No, just that I couldn't make myself move too readily, once I'd got back to Earth.  I'd been away a long while, and I'd got a lot of road under my boots, if you will."  Her eyes focused on the glint of the glass; her full mouth twisted up.  "I didn't need to travel, anymore.  I was still out there."

  _And only recently did you come home,_ she added privately, pulling another sip....

* * *

   
  _Not seven months--not nearly._

Ensign Dacey Kerr cursed to herself as the fire shot from her fingers to her neck and stabbed her through the skull, and the same lament followed every wave of resulting agony:  Not seven months, and she'd not been trained for it--or she hadn't paid attention to that part past passing the course.  All she'd wanted was to extend her education and work with alien cultures.  She'd wanted to buried in the processes, tucked away to help them unclog their translation matrices and see the quadrant, fulfill the challenge the lot had served her back home by telling her she couldn't do it.  She'd wanted that, not to be subjected to--

  "Aggh!  God, just cut the bloody thing off!" she cried into Mika's breast, sobbing at that point not just for the pain but also the fear, handily multiplying in her mind.  Her crushed arm hung lifeless at her side, but it might as well have been literally on fire--along with the rest of her for having gambled and lost.  _How, dear God, she had I lost it all!_ Her ship was torn apart, her good captain was dead, nearly everyone else dead, all her research and everything she'd brought with her there gone, and now...

  On the other side of the room, they were talking about how to kill them.

  Kill them...

  Their execution...  Taken from her parents, Dennis, Marcas and Corinne, her grandparents, cousins and all the kids...  Her _life_ cut off, and indeed, she would die a coward, a limp-armed fool who'd championed the brilliant idea of Starfleet being the one way to open the doors she wanted to stride through. 

  Her sobs ratcheted up again and she clutched Mika's sleeve.  "I cannot do it, Mika.  I cannot go...  Dennis...  He's expecting me home in two weeks for our anniversary!"

  "Shh, Dacey.  I know.  I'm sorry."

  "If they'd wanted us dead, why haven't they killed us already?"

  "Will you shut her up?" Yang snapped.

  "Watch your tone, Ensign," Mika snapped back.

  "Cut it out, all of you-- _now_ ," said Castillo.  "Mika, I know she's hurting, but do what you can--try to keep her quiet."

  "Smother her," came a woman's voice, simple, crisp and completely serious.

  Castillo coughed with disbelief.  "What?"

  "It's the merciful thing to do," the woman explained, "though it won't kill her."

  Looking up, Dacey saw the profile of a tall, blonde woman in a yellow shell shirt before her.  She was staring intently at the Romulan officers and hadn't diverted her attention from her examination to make her suggestion.  Dacey had not met her, but she had seen her while coordinating with the android on some data transfers.  Her fair skin smudged and her blonde hair pushed back with Ensign Teralli's usual black headband, she stood as strong and straight as she had over on that other ship, studying every move from those who would commit them to a painful death.  Plainly, she feared nothing in them, but looked at them as though _she_ were deciding their fate.

  Dacey shuddered as her head fell back, knowing for certain she wasn't at all like that.  She was weak and terrified, and the pain had become unbearable.  She stuffed down bile as wave after wave of nausea rushed over her again and again.  Spots formed in her vision, spinning and turning as the voices melded and a gush of warmth fell over her...

  Suddenly, her vision cleared...

  Now, the tall woman turned and gestured at her, the tiniest smile pressed to her lips.  Her watery eyes focused. 

  She felt herself rise from Mika's arms and the pain recede.  She felt herself moving closer to her, because she must...

  The woman's eyes closed and opened again properly decorated; the grime disappeared and her skin smoothed as her hair grew into curls and the headband into fine tulium loops.  Her stark, yellow shirt and black trousers faded into a rich brown wrap dress, square-necked and edged with precious red stones.  She reached out with her fair, slender hands, nearly touching her...

  "You will serve me now, Nih'orr."

  "I would ever serve you with honor, Havaln."  She tried to bridge the distance, but found the gap impenetrable.  Her arms would not move.  She gasped with frustration.  "Havaln!  I cannot reach you!"

  "But your duty is to me."

  "My duty is my one true possession..."

  "Why do you remain?"

  "I am trying!"

  "I need you, Dacey..."

  ...

  "Havaln!" 

  Dacey Kerr sprung up, covered in a cold sweat and shuddering.  She was still twitching to reach out...to find...

  She suddenly realized that she couldn't...wouldn't ever...

  "Dacey, darling, what's the matter?" 

  Dacey jerked her head around at the sound and blinked when she saw Dennis. 

  Dennis...

  Her husband. 

  Warm and real, his arm was around her.  They were still sitting on the cushioned bench in the corridor.  She could smell his skin lotion--such a strange scent, terribly familiar like so many others things, and yet so alien to disturb her senses.  Concern streaked his face, and his mouth opened to ask further, but then it closed again.  He did not know what to ask.

  He had faded from joy into that particular expression the day he took the transport out to meet her at Vulcan.  Seeing him for the first time in eight years, Dacey almost didn't believe it was her husband, and she could hardly touch him for being so shocked.  Officially a widower, he along with the rest of the family had never been quite convinced of her demise.  In fine local fashion, they wanted a corpse to prove the official assertion.

  A couple of years later, they had received a hint of Dacey's survival, and a suggestion that patience and silence would help bring her home.  Wanting to trust the quizzical message and to believe in a potential miracle, the family had embraced the foreign ideas, and for six more years, they waited. Her mother, Mahdi, had been the most stubborn of them all, never once speaking about her daughter in the past tense, keeping her desk in the den in perfect order, setting Dacey's place at the table every night and whacking Marcas' head with a spoon when he said anything about it.

  Dacey had stared blankly as Dennis, too thrilled to understand her stupor and silence, had explained it all.  But upon his finish, she had offered no response.  She _had_ been happy to see him, relieved that he was still her husband after all that time and going home with him, but all she could voice was a request for his patience.  She had not yet even imagined what to do with the reality she had been promised years ago but could not make herself consider seriously until the moment of their reunion.

  "For I've nothing, you see," she had told him, soft and quick, her breath catching as she jerked to move, thinking that what she'd left behind was just behind her, waiting for her to turn to follow.  "Or I've come with nothing.  I'll need...time.  Yes, time."

  "Of course, you need time, Dacey, and we'll help you through.  You know that.  All the lot's ready to do anything that needs to be done...."  At that point, he'd furrowed his brow to gaze down at her.  "Are you well, love?"

  "Well enough," she had answered, an easy lie, even to herself.

  Three days later, sitting on the bench beside him at Starfleet Command, she jumped when his hand touched her cheek, and her eyes drew up to find his unmoved.  Only then did she realize that she had not answered him.

  "What is it?" he repeated gently.

  "I'm here," she whispered.  Her gaze pinned on the chronometer across the corridor, and she took the required time to translate it into Romulan time.  In the room across, Castillo was being interviewed by a row of Admirals who would hear each of the others' story next, which would not be much more than what they'd already learned from their initial group meeting and Castillo's carefully written report. 

  It seemed forever since she'd had anything to do.  It seemed like it would be forever before she found anything she _wanted_ to do.  Sleep provided her no real rest.  Her stiff, replicated clothing clung to her crawling skin like a poisoned weed.  Food tasted like mud.  Voices were loud and disrespectful.  Everything was too bright.  But it was better than the empty time--endless waiting for nothing and nobody important.  So she had fallen asleep in Dennis' arm, her fingers curled around the seam of his uniform jacket, like a child.

  _"Ul odrra biku hveh al gishti maushtoh...."_

  Shivering now, she then stilled and forced herself to say the sequence, if only within herself...  _"I am the center, and all surrounds me.  I stand in the middle, my face to the star; Great star:  Give me focus and reserve, give me focus and reserve, give me focus and reserve..."_

  It must always be within herself.

  "I'm here."  
 

  Peace, sleeping or awake, had in fact been non-existent since she and the crew had embarked the Botreko at Nesig-Ros Science Station, the penultimate leg of their journey home after a seven-month long trudge through Romulan space in a slow but successfully cloaked reconnaissance ship.  Dacey should have been happy--she _wanted_ to be happy, relieved, anxious to get back all she had lost.  She was far from any of those, however, only thankful that Dennis and her family were still well. 

  As ill at ease as she felt, however, anything was better than the "gathering" after the interviews, when they finally were released from Starfleet Command and their families all converged to "welcome" them.  The reunion to her was a raucous, ridiculous event, even if but involving thirty people.  Stuffed onto the admiral's lounge at Headquarters, they poured synthehol, chopped up cheese and acted as though they'd been the heroes.

  In truth, all they had been were dutiful tevol'oc biding their time until their block leader could sentence their benefactor to an early death simply because he couldn't be bothered to make an informed decision.

  Dennis had gone to the toilet, leaving her alone in the growing clamor and emotion.  Dacey just wanted to go home, crawl into her blankets and die for a year--or just die.  Anything to get rid of the show and the noise.  All the incredible noise...the squawking and shrieking...

  "Saul!  My God!"

  "No, you'll go to therapy immediately, Lon!  Oh, you poor thing!  What they did to you!"

  "Ooooh, _look_ at you!  Oh Posa!  Posa!"

  "Yes!  A toast!  A toast to all of you!"

  Dacey collapsed onto her knees.  "Just shut it!  Shut it off!" she gasped.  Shivering with stress, she finally got enough breath into her lungs to snap in Romulan, " _All of you, silence!_!"

  Suddenly two hands landed on her shoulders and a long presence pressed against her back.  She jerked then froze.  Her eyes shut.

  "Easy, Dacey," a voice said, solid, serious.  It was Castillo.

  Gasping, she looked up and saw him there.  He'd let his thin hair grow out and got some artificial sun, which along with his straight, red uniform made him more alien than ever.  But his voice was right, as were his eyes, hard but patient.  She stared into them, for the first time allowing him to look into her, see what he could see there.  Not that he knew or would enjoy much more than his assumptions.  Making herself relax for a minute with that in mind, Dacey finally pulled herself together.  Forcing her shoulders down, forcing her shudders away, she let him see that, too.

  "I know it's got to be hard," Castillo said.

  "The problem is," she whispered tightly, "that you really think you know how much."

  "I know enough and I see you.  We might not agree on much if anything, but I know what you're missing."

  She hugged herself, her eyes on the floor.  "It's not nearly the same, sir."

  "Either way, there's no use in dwelling on it, now.  We have to--"

  "I have to go away from this," she cut in, softly and again in Romulan, almost in desperation for the answer she needed to hear.  "How did I even get into this room?  Why am I here?  I cannot remain."

  "You will soon," he replied in kind, then added in Standard, "Come on, Dacey.  It'll be all right.  Give it another try--if only to say goodbye."

  He touched her shoulder, more softly, and now she could see gentleness in his eyes.  To her memory, he'd never shown her that much.  She did appreciate it, though.  With Sandra already gone, Mika surrounded by her sisters, and the others embracing their families as they should, no one else on the crew would want to pay her any mind her now.  They had far better company than the one who'd forsaken them.

  "You know she'd want you to appreciate being home now," Castillo added.  "It's what she had wanted."

  "Had...?"  Dacey felt the hollow in her chest for the reminder.  Past tense.  The past, never to be again.  Done.  All Dacey had, too, never again.  There was nothing.  "Aye...  Aye, she had."  Her voice was very soft now.  "She had."

  She was gone.

  Why couldn't she cry?

  Why in the world was she there at all? 

  She honestly could not remember how she had managed to come into that ridiculous exercise.

  "Come on, Dacey," she heard Castillo saying.  "Try again.  It's okay.  We all understand."

  Bucking up her humility, she came again into the group, terse but trying hard, forcing her every nerve to tune out the sounds and flutters.  Indeed, her charge would have been happy to see her there, with her husband and those people, alive and free, everything she had planned, everything....

  At last, Dennis returned, just as the clamor again grew too much to bear.  "Take me away from here, Dennis," she told him, already turning to go.

  She did not say goodbye.

  She did little more than say hello when she got home.  
 

  "Dacey?" 

  Cal Innes came into the back hall, his heavy boots meeting the stone floor.  They squeaked with wet and sloshed with mud.

  Dacey did not answer.

  He came farther into the hall, slowly now, and his soles now echoed against the walls.  She could see the tracks he was making without looking, see her mother scrubbing it up and admonishing him.  She knew all this would be, and still she did not move. 

  "That you, lass?" he tried again, nearing.  His steps slowed as he came further into the dim recess.

  She could smell his rugged coat.  Everything smelled like an insult to her every sense, and the odor that assailed her now made her force a swallow.  He'd come in from the rain after a day out with the sheep and the dogs.  The mud slopping the floor was mixed with manure, grass and peat, no doubt, caked up in his treads even after they'd got a scrubbing on the scraper at the door.

  Dacey meanwhile had been relishing the silence, comfortable in the dim light and resting on her knees.  But of course, they couldn't understand that.  They saw it as weakness, strangeness, something to be treated or prevented, despite all of her assurances and promises it was none of that.  How could they believe she _must_ be that way?  That her silence was her strength?

  "Dacey, lass, supper's soon."

  He was beside her now.  At last, she turned her stare up to her father's deep blue eyes, lit by the sun streaming in through the little hall window at the end, she watched his brow furrow and lips open with surprise.  Aside from that tilt of her head, she didn't move from her spot, kneeling on the stones, the fingertips of one hand just touching the marble.  In her other hand, she held her locket, warm in her palm.

  "What are you doing down there?"

  "I'm waiting," she breathed, her stare growing wild as she likewise tried to figure out when she had come around that corner, of why she'd chosen that particular spot to remain.  Suddenly, she couldn't recall what had brought her there.  Her fingers slid along the stone, but then set down as before, certain, ready....  "Waiting."

  "Waiting for what?"

  "I just...  I just came here and got down...to wait."

  "Would you like some help at getting up?" he gently suggested.  "It cannot be comfortable."

  "No, no.  It's quite comfortable...and it's...  No.  I'm well enough."

  How his heart must ache now, she thought, understanding his expression when she turned her eyes back down to the floor, for she knew what memory of herself she had left behind.  She remembered herself, too: strong, mindful, quick to think and speak and as swift on her feet, never resisting an act of defiance.  Of course, often, this meant she often said the wrong thing, bumped straight into a wall or made a fool of herself, but she had rarely held back.  Indeed, that she got through the Academy had to have been dumb luck in patient people. 

  What a fool she had been.  What had all her spirit and rebellion got her, after all?  A straight shot into slavery on Romulus, wild and untrained to control much of anything past her bladder; she was rather but a target and a danger to the rest of them.  Her removal from their block had not only kept them all from getting killed, but had, after an excellent primer in the roosts, taught her to be in control of her mind and body, stability and esteem, and it had given her occupations and expectations she had lived to meet each day.  Now gone, all gone, and she felt as though she were swimming deep in a well, seeing the light but knowing no hope of touching it.

  How could they ever understand that?

  Nine years after her first lessons in Rul'siat, she could feel her father's eyes boring into her.  "What did they do to you out there?" he asked her, and she felt his warmth.  They had been so close once, a team.  Perhaps he understood her then, and still might....

  Dacey's gaze ricocheted across the floor before settling on its original direction.  "Nothing terrible," she insisted, her voice like a scrape on the wind.  "They were kind to us--kind as they could have been, as it were.  They were in control of the works, of course, but we were to come to no harm, not spoken too harshly to or worked too hard.  And the other tevol'oc were quite fair to us, considering.  That was the deal, and all but one followed, thanks to her.  Aye, all but one...."  Her eyes closed in a silent prayer--prayer to what, she did not know.  The Great Star was not a deity, after all, and even if it were, there wasn't much chance she could worship it as one, with none to follow...none to pray for.  None anymore.  "She made it right for us."

  His brow furrowed.  "Who would that be, Dacey?"

  "Havaln," she whispered, but then felt her heart race to have felt the words so instantly upon her lips.  They should not know about her--know what she was...everything to her.  Everything...  "She was a lady in the house I served.  She...  She was good to us, and she saw to our well being..."  Dacey gasped, her back quaking with the stress.  The talking was bringing her back more than ever now, and yet should not stop herself.  She had to remember, if only for him, "Something had happened, you see, and she...  She was...sensitive, and so he sheltered her, and she looked after him as well as us...and I looked after her.  They took me out of the roosts and trained me to look after her.  And I did…always..."

  She shook her head, her eyes again pinned to the floor and her soft voice growing rough.  "And I wonder about my days there, Dad.  I cannot stop thinking by the Schedule....  Did I set her tea properly or choose the right dishes?  And are her pins in correctly?  She was particular about that, wanted just the right colors and....  Was it time for her massage?  Her bath?  What should I pull from the closet or take to the laundry?  And I close my eyes and see her walking before me, always.  I lived with that view for so long, and now it's gone.  You see, I came to depend on my duty as much as I depended on her to tell me everything was all right, that I _would_ see my family again someday.  It was everything to her that we would.  She did so much to help us, and I hadn't been given a choice to give up my duty.  She told me it would happen...and then she wasn't there anymore, and I could do nothing but stare at the walls, expecting to see her, to hear her call to me...Nih'orr…

  "Oh Dad, would I only know how it was at the end!  If she'd been frightened...if there was pain.  I don't know.  I cannot ever know...and she'd want it that way.  She would, too...  No, she did...she did want it that way.  So good, she was, and she always knew she'd die, that it should be, and that it was right, safe....  Aye, dead.  Dead, dead...as she knew it'd be.  And after all she gave for us--for me!  No, no, I cannot think about that, anymore!"

  Dragging several breaths, forcing down her shudders, Dacey again tucked away the worst of it, and she clutched her hands against herself.  "So I get on my knees and wish she'd come around the corner so I could follow her, see after her as I had and thought I always would.  It was all my life had been for years, over seven of ours...and that sort of thing doesn't just turn down or off.  It was...  It is _me_ , my identity.  I belonged to her, and I had to go away from her, and I would not have chosen to go.  But aye, she knew from the start I would go home, for that was what she had been promised and trusted it, but I don't like it.  I wish...I'd not had to go away from her."

  "Oh, Dacey...dear girl."  At last, Cal bent to a knee, his eyes glistening.  His hand reached out to touch her arm, but fell just short of its goal.  "You might, perhaps, want to talk about this with someone, you know?"

  "But I am, and with someone I'd give my time to," Dacey countered then shook her head again.  "Oh, Dad...  I can see her everywhere, standing there or there, reaching out to me, trying to smile through eyes like a pool....  She knew everything about me, even to the end, to the very end....  And all I want to do is go far, far away, out on a hill with nothing but the winds and the sheep.  --And the last thing I thought I'd ever want outside of hell is the boggin sheep blaring around me.  But better them than eggs.  I mean, I'll eat eggs, but don't ever ask me to touch one or look at a hen or nest again--none of it."  She sighed out her frustration, there, for the memories as much for the digressions, which were coming faster and fuller each time she circled around what she knew she wanted to say but couldn't, and knew she wanted to do...  "If they did anything to me, it'd have been teaching me so much self control that I've come off the hinge instead!  I can't think straight but for Havaln and I wanted tears so badly all that time that I forgot how to make them!"

  Finally, her father reached out and touched her arm.  Dacey grabbed it and sat up enough to pull him close and hug him tightly.  Burying her head in his thick fleece collar, she heaved a few dry sobs.  Only seconds after the release began, however, she automatically refrained from escalating it.  It was enough to loosen her banded nerves and quiet her tongue.  Her whole body grew flaccid then, as if exhaustion had finally consumed her, though she was very much awake.  Her father held on well after this recovery, not letting her drop a centimeter.

  "I would like to stop waiting someday, Dad," she whispered into his ear.  "Just it won't happen today, is all."

  Cal sighed and nodded at the same time.  "All right, lass.  I understand.  I'll give you time, however much you need.  But know I'm here for you, as ever.  You're my partner in crime, remember?  I shant be losing you again, now."

  The moment passed, and he carefully released her to sit again on her heels.  Looking up again, Dacey offered a smile in thanks.  Then it faded.  Taking his hand again, she squeezed it and said firmly, "Please do not tell the lot what I have said here."

  Her words were spent.  It was done, and she didn't have to speak of it again.

  And so she didn't.  
 

  "So, I thought to take it tomorrow to have the pins realigned," said Marcas Innes as he poured a tall glass of milk for himself and his two boys.  "Danny, help your brother, there.  Corinne, you all right, there? Need anything? --I'd like to make it last the rest of the season."

  "Think that'll do it?" Dennis asked, his elbows on the family table, his hands around his steaming mug of tea as he considered his brother-in-law askance.  "It's goosed twice already.  Sounds time for a new system."

  Marcas emptied half the glass and wiped his mouth with a knuckle.  "Gary's fair certain it's a phase problem, and he can get the field reset right," he told him.  "But I'm not running down to the Spey after the flock thanks to a hunch."

  "I can take it to him on the way to school, Dad," Daniel offered as he stirred a biscuit in his glass and plunked down next to his little brother.  "We can keep the sheep in the inside ring, and I can bring it back in the afternoon."

  "If Danny can get it back, I can reinstall it before they'd need to be moved," Dennis agreed, nodding.  "For that matter, a new system takes a week to install at best, and the kids have got practicals this week and next.  They can't help check the posts until that's past them. A refit's probably best for now, then we'll see about upgrading the works."

  "Lemme get Gary on the shouter first, be certain he can take it."  Marcas gave the form next to Dennis a once-over and pursed his lips above his mug.  "What d'ye think, Dacey?" he asked, intently squinting at her.  "Think another realignment'll hold it on, or should we ask about for some help and save us the trouble later?"

  She glanced at her brother in such a way she knew should speak her thoughts then returned her attention to her PADD.

  "Well, what?"

  "Brilliant," Dacey whispered, not looking up that time.

  "It's important, lass," Madhi reminded her as she set away the dishes in the cupboard behind her son.  "You've worked on it before, remember?  What you think of it matters."

  "I think it's pure brilliant," she expanded dully and tapped in a footnote.

  That time, Corinne looked up from the usual-of-late view of her fiercely nursing daughter.  "And what's _that_ supposed to mean?"

  "Likely what you think it does," Dacey muttered.

  "Devil take you, Dacey!" Marcas snapped, his dark blue eyes sparking.  He slammed down his mug.  "When'd you settle to be some dighted crannie when you'd been the whip of us all, by your word?!"

  Wincing, Dacey scooped up her research PADDs to leave the table, deserting Dennis, who tried to touch her a moment too late.

  "Who came back here?!" Marcas went on with a swing of his hand as she passed him by.  "Not _any_ Dacey Ann Innes I ever knew, certain!  You're useless!"

  "Stop badgering your sister!" Madhi scolded.

  "How about she gets out of the bloody crib?" he shot back.  "Two years, she's been left to burrow in that ditch and go off her head!  She'd best slink back into her cell and rot, for all the use she is to anyone now!"

  Dacey kept walking, up the back stairs, where her brother's voice bounced off the wood walls.  She sped up.

  "You want our girl back, Ma, you cannot let her keep hanging on the leash they slapped on her!"

  Coming to her room, Dacey closed the door behind her, softly enough to add no more noise to her throbbing head.  Still able to hear them, she moved to the other side of the room.  "Al iglahk pash'ik," she breathed without thinking to, "tsurrhko ar gishti mi'urrv al pah'innu dioch'lu tik…"

  Her head jerked.  "What honor?" she suddenly asked herself, feeling her heart hammer in her chest.  "What honor can there be here?"

  She closed her eyes then, and she drove the emotions down, down until they all were quiet.  The denial left her numb, but the numb was better.  Eventually, she'd be able to think with direction again, dig into life again--anything to make herself feel real again...as she had then, when all she needed to do was before her, and all she needed to feel was clear. 

  "Iglahk tiki chabbrolg hochka migret...."

  She had to believe that this would happen.  Havaln has told her it should be.  So it would have to be.

  She could not have seen Dennis get up and leave through the other door some minutes later, his shoulders hunched over with defeat.  She probably would not have cared if she did.  
 

  "Meggie down at last?" Dacey asked, regarding the littlest member of the household.  She had been avoiding her infant niece whenever she wasn't attached to her sister-in-law.  To her great pain, the innocent creature's noise was not surprising, considering her parents, but the timbre was akin to a kind of screaming she'd known all too well, far less innocent.

  "Aye," Dennis quietly told her.

  "Down for the night, then."

  "She's supped well off Corrine; she's out."

  She nodded to herself.  "She's down, then."  She toed off her other shoe.

  They hardly spoke about anything but the basics anymore, and often in such circles when they did.

  Then again, she rarely spoke to anyone, now, when she once had been alive with chatter and imaginings.  Even over subspace--which she had used for a good portion of her off-duty time--she could find banter and humor in most anything concerning the ship, and vastly enjoyed receiving the same.  With Dennis, she had all the intimacies to go along with it.  Long, happy hours they spent within the quarters of their respective ships, trading innuendo alongside news, and sharing their desire to see each other again soon.  Soon.

  Now she wondered often why she was still married and why she bothered living at home.  After two years, she still couldn't pry herself from the floor.  On their way home, she hadn't felt as much misery.  Perhaps it was that she had still been surrounded by those close to "her rank," or perhaps being robbed of her duty hadn't quite sunk in, yet.  Either way, it weighed on her now more than it ever had.  It seemed the longer she was parted from her duty, the more it dominated her mind.

  "Admiral Friedman had me in her office today to talk about a new project."

  Dacey drew her eyes from the window, where the snowfall had snagged her attention.  She had missed snow on Romulus.  It was certainly cold there, but winter was generally dry; precipitation came as ice, not the delicious soft snow now landing on the sill....  "Aye?"

  The snow continued to captivate her, even while Dennis was sitting just to the right of it.  Though his youthful face had filled in, he looked much as he had twelve years ago, she thought wistfully, with his sandy hair combed off to the side and his fair blue eyes.  Strong but slim, his legs set apart and a hand on a knee below his confident posture, he was just as desirable as he had been then, too.  How often she thought about him, her insides quivering, when she sat outside the door while the general and his consort took their time together!  Havaln's breaths and soft, erotic moans were not Dacey's style, and the general's appreciative hums and passionate whispers not Dennis'; however, it made her remember acutely how she and Dennis has been together, the love they shared so sweetly, or playfully, like kids.  And she'd sometimes wondered of she might ever know it again.

  "It's at Nashira, by Deep Space Three," Dennis went on.  "It'll be a two year study.  She almost didn't offer it, knowing I was married."

  Dacey blinked, took a breath.  "She's a thoughtful one."

  She could hardly say they had made love since her return.  For all her appreciation of her husband's form and person, she could not bring herself to enjoy him.  His affection got some pleasure in reply, but with the reality of sex now upon her again, she found her heart hollow and her hands cold.  Sex felt...wrong, like something she shouldn't be doing.  But Dennis was too kind for her to completely deny, so she gave him her body and pretended she wanted it, too.

  His eyes fell hard upon the side of her head for some time.  Finally, he gave in and said, "I told her I'd consider it.  Two years hard study, right in my area of focus right now...  It's an outstanding opportunity, and an honor just to be considered, and I've far less happening in San Francisco.  It was worth thinking about."

  "You should take it if you want it," she whispered, her eyes still on the pane, now following an arc of frost in the corner.  She always wondered why it first appeared in that corner first, even when she was a girl...

  "Or maybe I shouldn't plan to come back," he suggested.  His voice was sad but his meaning was clear.

  Dacey said nothing at first, but her gaze fell a moment before her eyes closed.  "If that's what you need to do, Dennis, I'd be wrong to stop you."

  She could feel him staring at her again, the crumpled woman in the dark corner.  He couldn't know how many long hours she'd spent in one on Romulus, but never defeated--proud, watchful, thankful.  Now all of that was gone, too.  They neither could know what was left of the girl he'd snatched up before she'd even completed her second year at the Academy.  How passionate they'd been, how of one mind they'd felt they were.

  "Do you love me, Dacey?"

  She coughed a laugh.  "What a question that is!" she breathed and finally looked up at him.  The pain in his face shrank her heart.

  "Indeed, it was," he said.  "But I have to know, before I go away, before I make any decisions.  Dacey, having you here and still being alone's been harder than wondering if I'd ever see you again all that time."

  Dacey slumped.  They apparently still knew each other in some ways.  "Aye."

  Suddenly, the silence was hellish, but still, she waited through it, waited for him to bring her to speak.

  "Do you love me?" he asked again.

  "But of course I do, you fool," she breathed, dangerously close to the cry she couldn't serve herself.  "You are the only man I have ever loved--loved as a woman.  Thinking about that love, what brought us together, is what kept me _hinged_ out there.  I'd have easily given up, turned my heart and soul right away from Earth for good, had I no one behind me, had I not the thought of you in our bed, waiting for me to get in it again...and I wondered if you'd still be there after all that time, not knowing what'd happened to me.  It'd rent my heart to think of it every time I let myself, and yet I hoped you would wait.  I thought just to be able to hold your hand again would be worth every pain I could suffer."

  Her lips turned up, but only sadness reflected from the feature.  Her hands, pressed upon her lap, dallied slightly at the fingertips.  "I knew you would stay, somehow, though--because you've loved the lot as your own since before I can remember, and you'd always complimented me with your patience.  I hardly deserve you for everything you've suffered because of me.  But if in the course of time you find yourself needing to make the break, just tell me.  I'll set you free, because you deserve some peace in all this.  I want you to be happy, Dennis.

  "Take your project, immerse yourself in it and do the good I know you can.  I'll be here, and I'll be studying, and I'll accept your decision either way.  You deserve whatever you can get for yourself.  You deserve fulfillment."

  She exhaled at the end of it.  She'd not said so much to him since she came home.  She hardly thought the small catharsis felt good, however.  She was exhausted, raw...and frightened.  _Frightened._ Her brow furrowed.  Why should she ever be frightened in her own house?  With her own family?  How could anything make her like that?  They were her rock, her root...  Or they had been...

  Why couldn't she feel that?  Why when she closed her eyes, she felt more like she were adrift in a hot chasm?  And she couldn't even see them there...that rock, that root, and no duty, no desire.  She had none of that now.

  Dacey sat for nearly a minute, driving her thoughts from questions and uncertainty into the silence.  The silence once more brought her comfort, like a warm, plush blanket around her nerves.  She settled into it, waiting...waiting... 

  Across, Dennis watched her studiously, and blinking to herself, she suddenly realized his attention might be the signal she required.  Had he been ignoring that before?  She hadn't noticed, to her sudden shame.  But she noticed him now, and she was seeing him, even understanding him.  For the first time since their reunion, her attention was totally on him, and so much more when she bowed her head briefly.  "I'm so sorry, love.  I keep doing that."

  "Losing your focus?"

  "Just the opposite."

  "Which is?"

  "Waiting."

  "Why?"

  "I was taught to."

  "And it's hard to shake."

  "Aye."

  He nodded slowly, letting it all sink in.  His eyes did not leave her.  "But you still love me."

  She nodded back.  "I still love you."

  "Then I'll be back."

  "And I'll be waiting."  
 

  And she'd meant it.  After all, she _had_ become rather good at waiting.  Unfortunately, her style about it was not nearly as productive as it had been in her last profession.  Or wasn't it?

  "Good, Ma, thanks."

  "No, he's not looking at her like that!"

  "Lorna?  Bread, please."

  "Salt, too?"

  "Pappy and Grannie Ann's made it to Risa.  Images soon, they say."

  "Can't wait to see that!"

  It all swam around Dacey, who drank her tea with her eyes on her PADD, soaking, digesting, blocking the ruckus of sound a little better with a few years' practice.

  "He's got right pish marks this term, poor bastard."

  "Watch yourself, Lachie!"

  "Sorry, Ma."

  "It's next month, and I've no clue about it."

  "What do you mean?"

  With Marcas' residual resentment and Dennis at Nashira for a year by then, few tried to speak with her now, but talked around and over her and hardly even looked anymore.  Only her parents made efforts, and she did what she could to give them some reassurance.  So she came to supper with her family, loud as it ever was, and she took some nourishment before returning to the den to start writing again.

"But he's still off geometry in the worst way."

  "No more this season."

  "Waiting then?  Good, good."

  "Seems town's about nothing but festivals, these days."

  "These centuries, you mean."

  "Where's the salt got to?"

  "Under your nose, Sammy!"

  "Aye keeps the farm and looms going, no use in complaining about it."

  Her mother stood and pulled the last pot off the warmer then set it on the table.  Everyone got a serving, Dacey last by choice, for she never was quite hungry for what was now such tasteless food, and she didn't like the comments she got when she "peppered" her bowls.  So she usually let meals set until they chilled, drank her tea, ate quickly then excused herself.

  But she did appreciate how everyone quieted to enjoy Mahdi's stew and oatcakes--all but her cousins Lorna and Mhairi's teenage daughters, Emily and Maisie, who couldn't be silenced in a black hole, Dacey was certain.  Sixteen and fourteen, both were just old enough to have adventures and young enough to call her "Aunt Dacey," as did Marcas' kids--if they called Dacey anything at all.  The ones who had been born before her disappearance hardly remembered her, and the ones born after called her a "spooky ald bampot" and avoided her altogether.  Dacey hardly cared, as long as they left her alone.

  And that they did, especially the teenage girls, who continued to gush and lament about Emily's latest blunder-to-be.  So alive with the topic were they that they hardly let a second follow a swallow before continuing with their conversation.

  "And now I'm on a box, because I cannot just go tell them I've changed my mind now that the other presenter's quit.  I'll be a shaffy presenter, too!"

  "Then why'd you volunteer if you're not right for it?"

  "Well...Coinneach's going to be there."

  "Ah, Long John Coinneach!"

  "Maisie Agnes!" scolded Mhairi.

  "It's just what they call him at school, Ma.  Pirate, all that.  He likes ancient pirate lore."

  "Aye, right," Mahdi frowned.

  "Sorry, Grannie," Maisie said, and smiled again when Mahdi relented with a wave and got back to her meal.

  "So, I've no offense with the doing," continued Emily, poking her spoon in and out of the soup to cool it, "but I've got no idea what to wear, nor at all what my hair should be doing.  I mean, everyone's to be _looking_ at me like I've got some knowhow when I've no more clue of it than a Dickensian washwoman!"

  "You can look up ancient Celtic dress."

  "But it's so broad, and it's all written by more non-Scots than are--and I guess I'll have to have a wig replicated, too.  I've got no hope fixing it myself."  Emily huffed a breath, almost in tears now.  "Oh, what was I thinking?  I can just see the boggin mop flying off!"

  "But you've got all the hair you'll ever need!"

  "And what am I supposed to do with it?"

  "Braid it, of course!"

  "Right!  I'll rather be a Ancient American Native, this black sop and all!"

  "I can help."

  "Aye and your er--" Emily stopped, suddenly realizing that Maisie hadn't said that.

  Instead, Dacey was looking at her.  Small and shadowed at the end corner of the table, her unused spoon hanging in her pale fingers, the spooky bampot didn't blink when the teenager finally believed that the source of sound was indeed right across from her.

  "I can help you," Dacey repeated, a little stronger that time, holding the girl's eyes and ignoring the extraneous attention now pointing her way.  And though she hardly realized she had spoken the first time, she knew that she could do as she said, would she merely erase the doubt and caution written on the teenager's face.

  "How can _you_ do that?" Emily blurted, furrowing her brow.

  "Celtic."  Dacey's mind began to turn away from her PADD's contents to cloth and pattern and metals, designs on a figure...and hair.  She set down the spoon.  "Mediaeval..."  Her posture straightened at the familiarity of the subject and the history, once a hobby--one thing that had made her training on Romulus so much easier than even wise Ivador had suspected.  Rather, the servant had been deeply impressed by her student's knowledge and did not rest until she had learnt it all for herself.

  _I can use both her lessons and mine,_ she mused as she took in the girl's fine features anew.  "When Mediaeval?"

  "Fourteenth century, they said.  Millennia celebration and all."

  "Celebrated every year for lack of imagination and the public's selective amnesia," Dacey dismissed, still half under her breath as she continued to focus on Emily's looks.  "Common woman or lady?"

  "Lady, I think--but Gaelic speaking for certain."  She looked at Maisie.  "Another problem, that.  There's a presentation and a dialogue I've got to do with Mr. Crane."

  "You're pure mad!" Lachie laughed, leaning forward to laugh down the table at her.  "You can hardly tell it from Klingon!"

  "Clam up, Sammy!"

  Dacey was not diverted.  "When is this festival?"

  "End of next month--the one in Mortlach."

  "Seven weeks."  Dacey drew a long, slow breath, feeling it come together in her head, and then a plan.  "Work with me," she said at last, now firm to keep the girl's attention that time, "and work hard, and I'll have you speaking the ancient tongue like you were born to it."

  Emily's eyes widened with alarm.  "But I don't know a drop of it, Aunt Dacey!"

  "I know how to properly train a lass, and I'll train you, too, if you let me.  But you must want to.  I'll have no whining about sunshine and well-stocked lads.  If you want it, you will have it by my word." 

  And only as she said it did she know she _did_ want to do that work.  _The girl's no bigger a fool than I had ever been,_ Dacey thought, her mind and plans speeding up now.  _No doubt, I can teach her.  And she can learn._

  Dacey's eyes darted up and about again to address the other problem. "Your hair's long enough for a nest plait--loops, too, with a little help.  We'll take the sides and five-strand braid it to loop about your ears, like this."  She gestured the effect with her fingers.  "Then a nest plait at the top, just a little round, and the cloth's to pin under and behind it.  The rest hangs free over your shoulder."

  " _You_ do all that?" Emily asked, now incredulous. 

  "Ooh, what you don't know about Dacey!" Mahdi laughed.  Sitting at her place at the other end of the table, her eyes shone with amusement.  "Best you submit, Ems.  She's fair determined now."

  The teenager scowled at both adults now.  "You're off your head!"

  "I'll show you now if you like."

  "Now?  But we're eating!"

  Dacey pushed her soup bowl away and got to her feet.  "Then you won't be shuffling whilst I work, will you, now?  --Maisie, get upstairs and bring me some hairpins and a comb, third drawer on the left under the sink, blue box."  The girl immediately slid out of her chair and hurried to the stairway.  Moving around the table, Dacey gave the others a wave.  "Certain you're hungry," she muttered.  Stopping behind Emily she dipped her fingers into her niece's hair to deftly separate the dark curls and start plaiting one side.  "You may eat, Emily."

  "Eat?"

  "Your food, lass.  I'll get a feel for your head, now.  We'll wet it tomorrow and give it a proper go."

  Emily coughed something of an affirmative and picked up her spoon.

  Of course the girl probably thought she'd had gone mad at last, Dacey knew, but to feel her blood and her fingers moving again in a way she knew so well, feeling her skills coming to some use for a change, was rather like waking up after an overlong sleep.  For three years, she had studied alone in the quietest recesses of her family's house, chanted to herself as she looked out of her bedroom window at the rising sun and kept her experience locked away, painfully clear but untouchable.  Now, on a simple impulse, she was out of her seat and weaving a pretty head of hair as though she'd never stopped doing it, and she was planning the girl's first lessons and feeling... _awake._

  Her heart thrummed a little.  There was much she could do.  She had been trained well, and had become exceptionally good at training others.

  Dacey glanced at her PADD.  It was still open to a new treatise on exo-cognitive phonology--a bowl of rubbish, in her opinion, and one she planned to tear apart.  Upon her formal retirement from Starfleet a few days after returning to Earth, she had applied for and was accepted into her doctoral studies.  She had since been buried in books and writing until she fell asleep on her arm, waking only to refresh her Romulan with the morning ritual and books she had gleaned from the central database.  Weeks passed without notice as she honed her technical acumen and came quickly nearer to her final dissertation.

  But where was her purpose in that?  Where _had_ she been going with it all, after all the pains that had been taken to help her preserve her knowledge and offer her so much more to do with it?  _Rather,_ she wondered to herself, _where_ should _I go with it?  How do I honor those who gave so much for me?_

  The answer, when it came to her, was almost too simple.  Then again, the simplest answers often did elude her, so focused had she been on what was directly before her, not right beside.  Nodding to herself, she continued experimenting with her niece's hair.

  Looking up as she set one plait between her fingers and plucked a clip out of Maisie's offering hand, she offered a little smile to her father, who sat at the head of the table and could do nothing but smile hopefully back.

  It was a little progress, and but one small answer among many, but it was progress all the same.  
 

  Not that that simple answer had completely escaped her at first.  There had been a reason why her solution hadn't crossed her mind when she returned home:  Because it _had_ crossed her mind once.

  Eighteen years ago, to the collective astonishment of her family and friends, Dacey Innes hopped from her second year courses at Edinburgh, across a few ponds and into Starfleet Academy.  The plain but spirited teenager had proclaimed that becoming a Starfleet translation technician and an officer would be far more exciting than being locked up at the university, buried in books and dust with fledglings fluttering around her.  Facing life as a stodgy professor with a bun on her head and liver spots under her stockings hardly seemed like a life at all.  Sadly, there wasn't else for a girl gifted with languages to do but research and teach it, what with the technology to weed it all apart mechanically already there and more efficient by the year.  Thankfully, and thanks to her boyfriend Dennis' expertise, she also had some programming knack, so being a translation matrix engineer wasn't too far a leap from linguistics, and Starfleet would let her do it and remain fresh in her first love until she saw a more fitting place to be.

  Now thirty-six, Dr. Dacey Kerr leaned back in the chair of her new downtown office at the University of Paris.  Looking around at the clean, plain space with a view of the slab side of another building, she grinned a little to herself and opened left desk drawer.  A confirmed doodler, she had all her styluses and scratch tablets lined up in sequential order on the bottom left side and each of her classes and attendees' data cards lined up on the right.  She glanced at another set of data chips, neatly arranged in a secure case in the rear compartment.  They were ready for pickup.  She had gleaned some excellent information from those.

  Aside from sharing her knowledge with her unfailingly curious students, she now looked forward to seeing Admiral Pellija again at the quarterly division meeting. 

  Six months ago, after learning from whispers in Dennis' circle that Admiral Pellija, the newly crowned director of Exo-Cultural Research, was in fact in charge of Beta Quadrant undercover intelligence--which included Romulan affairs--she made point to ask for the same disgusting drink the man had ordered and take it from there.  She lured Pellija easily away from the noisy hubbub of the courtyard with a discussion about the linguistic similarities between Spanish and Trill (he was both), casually discarding the drink along the way to the garden, where they continued their interesting and, on her part, pointed conversation. 

  Romulans never did anything without a plan, after all, and she had learned well from that book, too.  She wore stockings to work, but she did _not_ intend to remain locked up in the classroom.  Moreover, Dacey never had wanted to put away her experiences on Romulus.  When she had taught Emily to speak Scottish Gaelic, she realized that part of her frustration in returning home stemmed from not being able to put her vast experience to any use.

  "Dialects?" the admiral queried over his aqua-colored cocktail.  His small, stocky fingers tapped on the frosty glass, an unconscious show of his brain churning to life that was everything Dacey had hoped for.

  "Several."

  "You know Romulan _dialects_?"

  "Wicked difficult to translate well," Dacey said as she leaned back on her hands, "what with all their subtleties and the fact that outsiders just don't hear about them."  Sitting on a garden boulder in her cute little dress with her hair coiffed just so for the event she would never have attended for pleasure, she knew she'd hooked him. 

  "Outsiders?"

  "Well, from what I've heard, Federation contact largely has been with the military, maybe a representative or...well, I can't see a senator ever bothering with any of us personally, if at all," she went on, her tone quick and quiet as ever.  "All citizens can speak the Jikraahk dialect--what they also call the Capital dialect, for it being in its most proper form in the capital.  All children learn it, in fact, like they learn Standard here on Earth.  They'd have you think that's all there is, plus a couple offshoot dialects, but on Romulus alone is a wealth of cultures and communities.  And oh!  Once you venture out into their space--it's a big place, after all--there is so much to know about in their kind and others there."

  Pellija's salted brown brow furrowed studiously as he took her babble in.  "How many of their dialects do you know?"

  "I'm well versed in eight and fluent in four--the three dialects of the Romulan homeworld, Jikraahk, Rul'siat and Movagh.  Igarrosh, the last, is an offshoot of Movagh and spoken on the colonies of Kiarrgoh, Cha'hurrugh and Nuob.  --A pure bastard, if you will, and some in the Capital don't acknowledge its existence for that reason, but I think it's really lovely.  I took a great interest in studying their origins and formations, and disseminating their poetry, pamphlets and folk traditions, of which there are a staggering amount.  --Truly, they're as artistic as they are warring, the Romulans.  I could probably pick up more had I the texts, as they all spring from a single root, Jikraahk; however, such volumes are sadly not in ready supply."  She winked for effect.  "And then there are the other unique races within the Empire I'd mentioned.  Quite a few, very interesting."

  The admiral did all but drool, much to her private satisfaction.  Then his face grew serious again.  "How did you come to know so much about the Romulan people, Mrs. Kerr?" he asked.

  She glanced around.  "I cannot give you every detail here in public, sir, though I suppose a gentleman of your rank can be trusted to be discreet with what I _can_ say."  He assented to this and assured her he would seek the details on his own though the proper channels, so she told him, "I was taken into and lived in Romulan space after an unfortunate series of events; there, I served a great family for several years.  One of my duties, among many others, was to translate texts from the original to either Rul'siat or Jikraahk.  No one aspires to be in such a predicament, certainly, but it was an enriching experience in many ways."

  The admiral nodded.  "So, you are a consultant," he deduced.

  "No, sir.  I'm a civilian, a graduate assistant and finishing my doctoral studies at this time."

  The admiral's lips turned up into a friendly smile.  "What precisely is your concentration, Mrs. Kerr?"

  A half year later, Dr. Kerr was quite satisfied with the sacrifice of a little pride and year's worth of nerves.  She hadn't had much of either, anyway, so she'd hardly fretted about the matter, particularly when the reward had rolled in. 

  Within a week of the dinner party, Admiral Martez of Starfleet Command had contacted her.  She had been a chief examiner upon the Federation block's return to Earth, and made a practice of keeping up with them.  Following another set of examinations to everyone's satisfaction, Dacey had been happily reunited with Admiral Pellija, who explained precisely what he wanted from her: cultural and linguistic analyses of smuggled intelligence.  She would not be required to revive her Starfleet career, nor report to Starfleet Command on a regular basis.  He wanted his consultants to have a "day job" in order to control interactions in his division.  Dacey could not have been more pleased with that arrangement.  Somehow, she'd landed on the best of all worlds.

  "Exo-Cultural Research" had been developed with many steps of prudence, in fact.  Analysts were strictly departmentalized to reduce the amount of intelligence they would access; each block of information had a three-point contact list, and each regularly updated their IDs.  Though they had not heard from the Romulan Empire in some years, they did not doubt that the Romulans would take advantage of their similarity to Vulcans to gather information.  They certainly had done so in the past, and, to Dacey's private gratitude, none had forgotten the tragedy of Narendra, the hundreds of lives, a colony and flagship lost.  No one wanted to repeat that or what led to it, so Starfleet gathered their data where they could, too, from Vulcan agents and Romulan dissidents who were able to export trickles of information through underground channels. 

  Reports from those agents coupled with Dacey's experience and particular intelligence hinted at a shift in the region's power structure--certainly, a great matter of concern to Starfleet Command, though they could do nothing but know it was happening and wait to see what came of it.  Dacey, likewise helpless there, could only bear her dreadful awareness and hope beyond hope that the people she cared about within the Empire would be all right.

  Meanwhile, she translated and analyzed data and transmissions, drew cultural parameters, created and maintained connections among the names and places and studied any and all texts and materials that could be smuggled out of Romulan territory, gleaned from expatriates or collected from other non-Federation races.  Corneal and DNA confirmation and grade-one secure communication channels became an everyday protocol to the staunch professor with the black ringlets, homespun plaid shawls and nervous snigger.

  "Excuse me, Professor?" came a mild voice at the same time as did a quick rap on her doorframe.

  Dacey closed her drawer and folded her hands on her desk. "Yes."  She nodded an encouragement to the young student who heeded her response, and then gestured to the chair that sat flush to the back wall. "Sit, please." Balancing a stack of PADDs in her arms and a bag on her shoulder, the student did and smiled with relief at her eventual success. Monitoring the process, Dacey waited for silence and stillness to reclaim the room before speaking again. "What can I do for you this afternoon, Miss Treger?"

  She could not help her smile as the student began her awkward, multi-part question.

  Indeed, Dacey's satisfaction with the way things had worked out at last could not be paralleled.  Not only was she getting on well at Starfleet and the university and was doing better at home, but she was also using what she had learned on Romulus in every way she could.  She particularly buried herself in developing lessons and writing when Dennis was off on another assignment or head first into his department's work in San Francisco, easing them into a well-worn marriage of two busy professionals who shared a great affection if no longer passion.

  The years passed peaceably, then, every year meeting the expectations of the thirty then forty-something couple who lived on her family's farm in northeastern Scotland.  While Dennis was the favorite uncle with a knack for helping with tricky homework and great stories from San Francisco and beyond, she continued to be the mercurial aunt all the kids went to for languages, hairstyles and festivals but otherwise left be. 

  He moved in many circles, she wrote.  He shipped out to locations, she taught.  He remained curious, she remained focused:  And indeed, had the rest of their lives passed in just this way, they might not have noticed what they were missing.

The rest of their lives, of course, did _not_ pass in just that way.  
 

  Crossing her long, black boots at the ankle as she leaned back on the park bench, Dacey thought for the hundredth time that Dennis had accepted his latest assignment in San Francisco for the fine weather alone--when that weather was fine, as it were.  That day, she'd have to say it.  The air had a pleasant crispness that summer morning, and she thankfully was able to spend a good deal of time in it with the university holiday on until August.  It had become too warm at home for her liking, having continued to prefer winter.

  It was good to have Dennis home, too.  Another two-year jaunt to Deep Space Three had--even she had to admit--left her a little lonely.  Perhaps it was her forties settling in, but subspace wasn't doing her much good anymore. 

  At first, she had filled the void by revisiting her past in larger doses.  She had made herself available when Mika came to San Francisco, and she welcomed her old friend into her house for dinner with her family.  While they never again shared the camaraderie they'd had in the when they served together on the Enterprise, catching up and sharing a glass of wine in the garden had been long overdue for them both.

  On another occasion, she'd run into Carson Parker and his fiancée in Paris on her way to the transport and had enjoyed a couple of dinners with them.  She even showed them around a little of Moray when they traveled there that Summer and likewise brought them home for dinner with the lot.  She attended their wedding a year later with Sandra Tosetti, nee Ferro, with whom she had remained in touch since their return to Earth.  Sandra's husband was a fine man who happened to be a Traditionalist potter, of all things to find while on a day trip from her family's home in Milan.  They had wed and settled in central Italy--all of this not three years after her return to Earth and subsequent retirement from Starfleet.  Within another eight years, they had two boys, curly towheads bounding about a vast orchard with a pair of enormous white dogs.

  Like Dacey, Sandra had come to use her second education.  Trained to be a gardener on Romulus, Sandra now kept an olive grove, citrus orchard and rose garden, the likes of which Dacey had never seen.  Often when she visited, she found the pretty ex-tevol'oc elbow deep in rich soil, her wide brim hat holding up most of her thick blonde curls, her smock tied with seeming haste around her slender waist--much as Dacey remembered her looking like on Romulus.  Sandra had held onto the traditions that Dacey had practiced on Romulus, too, though they somehow could not do more than acknowledge the fact.  Only an eerie understanding fell between them before they moved on to another topic.

  Her visits were unfailingly pleasant, but seeing Sandra's happy marriage and youthful family made Dacey itch for her own connections, such as they were--such as she had let them be--and she began to suggest her dissatisfaction with the temperature of her bed, and the lack of grumbling noises from the other side of it.  Thankfully, Dennis was getting to the age where a soft, old mattress and an older, harder counterweight had proven itself appealing, too.  His promotion to full commander and new position at the central science division under Admiral Gaerid-Shiv had likewise proven interesting enough to curb his rationalizing the merits of an issue bunk in a far-off sector.

  It was another good thing about the summer holiday, she thought with a smile when she saw the tall, fair form of her husband crossing the meticulous Starfleet lawn.  Forty six now, he had gotten handsomer by the year, she decided, for he truly was a lanky, freckled thing she couldn't help but love in his youth--not that she'd been any prize.  They'd both aged well, she'd decided.

  His stride picked up when she stuck out a hand, and their smiles matched at same time as their fingers upon his arrival.  After he pulled her to her feet, Dacey released him to cross her arms.

  "Ready for supper, then?" he asked.  When they were in town during that time zone's morning, they took a late dinner before transporting "back east," as they called it.  "Where to?"

  "Can we have a stop at the office?  I forgot a file and it'll be easier not to double-back."

  "Can't someone send it to you?"

  "Not this one," she told him in a way that allowed no argument and no explanation.

  He nodded.  "Off with us, then."

  Dacey moved around and took a step at his lead.

  They walked indeed like a couple of twenty-one years together, free of hurry and questions after each other's day, but together all the same.  A welcome quietness had crept between them over the past several years that was not a lack of communication as much as an understanding.  He had admitted to her great relief that he had come to appreciate their way about life.  Though early on they'd felt differently, that they had no children now allowed them both the freedom to pursue their careers and go where they pleased without feeling critically bound to their otherwise close-knit household.  Dacey traveled yearly to Vulcan and, more recently, had been called to Starbase 12 for an intelligence update; Dennis had become well known in the symposium circuit as well as throughout Starfleet Headquarters.  And when they weren't buried in work or home with the family, they took walks on the Starfleet grounds and shared a nice meal at a nearby restaurant.

  They got to her division, swerving around a set of columns and through a set of silent frosted glass doors.  Moving through the inner lobby to her little office three doors down the hall, she fished around in her safe unit for the PADD in question.  She was a bit abashed that she'd left it behind, even if the office was secure and the file was biometrically-locked.  "All's well enough if you don't make it a habit," she told herself as she slipped it into her inner jacket pocket and buttoned the flap.  Returning to the lobby, she offered her husband a little smile and a nod.  "All done," she said as they started out from the lobby.

  "That was quick," he said approvingly and guided her into the corridor.

  "Aye," she returned.  "Grub ought to find me quickly too if I'm not to float off."

  "Skipped lunch again?"

  "You know I cannot resist catches fresh from the sea.  --I'm paying Paul for it now."

  Dennis grinned.  "I'm right about you after this row of surveys."

  "Oh?  Cowed them to their very knees with your monumental presence, did you?"

  Dennis laughed.  "If only that!  I never imagined terrified ensigns could blether on as much as those whelps did--and aye with less sense after every breath."

  "They hardly need inspiration for that."

  "Still diverting to see who'll catch on and who won't.  Devil of a morning either way.  --Did we say we wanted Kisoka's then?  They've got brunch, and the quiet'll be good, as I've still got fifteen shades of lament running on in my ears."  He stopped, noticing with a blink that his wife suddenly wasn't by him.  "Dacey?"  He looked back and saw her frozen in her steps, staring straight ahead.  Turning to see her view, he saw an operations officer heading their way.  Frowning and quick to move, the ensign was apparently looking for something and had spotted them.

  Dacey had already felt the universe shrink down around her and slam her in the chest like a sledgehammer.

  "Excuse me, Commander," said the ensign, curt but courteous, "but do you know if Admiral Pellija is in his office?"

  "Er, no..."  Dennis gestured to his wife.  "But this is Dr. Kerr.  She's a consultant in this department."

  "Is he in, ma'am?" asked the ensign again.

  Dacey shrugged uselessly.  Already pale, she was now utterly dumb and lost of precious oxygen.  Her heart stopping was probably the cause.

  "The computer isn't detecting him?" Dennis asked.

  The ensign's frown twitched.  "He's not wearing his communicator."

  "He does that sometimes," Dacey whispered.

  "Excuse me?"

  Dacey repeated her answer in a croak, then swallowed and said it a third time.  As she felt her heart restart with a massive lurch, she hauled a breath, and shoved down her sudden, desperate desire to fling herself at the apparition that stood before her.

  _Twelve years..._

  Twelve years she'd been separated from her duty.  Twelve years and she'd not dared to look at Havaln's visage.  It was stuck too well in her mind for her to need to bother.  She still dreamed of it, that sweet smile and liquid gaze, and then her soft, kindly voice calling out to her, saying her name, or, more warmly, _"Nih'orr...."_

  Now the memory was staring at her...but not Havaln.  No, it could not be her havaln, but rather, the self for whom she had died...her precious havaln...

  Dacey's eyes drew up a bit more to look at the young officer...the ensign's.  Ensign Natasha Yar.  She had followed the same path, after all, and she now stood before her. 

  Then Dacey's shock turned into annoyance.  How couldn't she have imagined before that she'd see her anywhere near the East ECD wing despite its distal position from Starfleet Command and the Academy?  How could she have thought that a low-ranking security officer would never have any business with Pellija, even as an ignorant courier? 

  No, she had not thought about the possibility at all--she had shut out the very notion.

  Naturally, the very notion came to be.

  To only look at her, just a child--a mere youth to the nih'orr…and a dead one, too, soon enough...

  The ensign was just as observant, too--not that Dacey's stupor was difficult to miss.  "Are you all right, ma'am?" she asked, businesslike still and approaching her cautiously.

  Dacey started back.  "No--aye...  Aye, I'm well enough!" she gasped, suddenly set to action by the woman's need of her.  "No, no, I'll just...  Let me look at something--his schedule.  His assistant's out just now, but I'm to...  You, remain where you are, or...  No, no.  Remain.  ...There."

  "What's got into you, Dacey?" Dennis asked with a laugh.  "Starvation's got you off your head?"

  Now Dacey flushed red.  The ensign had glanced at the word...  "No...  No, I know nothing of such a thing!  How could I know starvation even were I told of it?  Even..."

  Her eyes finally redirected to gaze at the other woman.  Her heart hammered harder.

  "...if I knew of another kind...of starvation."

  The ensign's stare hardened.  "Excuse me?"

  Dacey was still backing up, unable to ease either officer's obvious confusion.  And the suddenly she couldn't remember what _she_ was doing to look at the young woman Havaln had known about, whose life she had owned, and would again....

  "I... Forgive me. I've just got..."

  Would Havaln have imagined she'd be an officer there, too?  But how lovely she was, all the same, even as she was--and how of course the girl was concerned about the tottering old professor who'd never told a soul about her charge, the woman who had come back in time thanks to that "right" version, and for whom her nih'orr would have given her own life, had she been allowed to sacrifice a smidgeon in comparison....

  "...got to look..."

  Had she been allowed, yes, she too would have perished...for her havaln...who was looking for...

  "You came to find..."

  _The general--she's looking for the general...  No!  Admiral!_

  "Yes!  Admiral Pellija!" she chirped.  "Just this--" Dacey swung around and smacked straight into a column.  "Bloody hell!" she barked, shocking even herself and grabbing her nose as a gush of blood spurted from it.  "I'm fargin' broke, certain!"

  "You're dafty!" Dennis rejoined as he grabbed his wife by the shoulders.  He waved a hand at the other woman.  "You, Ensign, help me get her to the clinic on the ground floor."

  "Yes, Commander."

  "Aye God," Dacey cried, "the devil'd I do to get here?!"

  "Just had to take a walk, apparently," Dennis rebounded.

  The ensign touched her face, trying to get her to look up.  "I can set it right now, ma'am, if you'll--"

  "Donnot bloody touch it!" Dacey howled, jerking away to bury her face in her husband's shoulder, not caring about ruining his uniform when the alternative view was right there on the other side.  But she knew what was on the other side--knew...  "I mean, I cannot take pain like you.  --I mean, as someone like you'd be, able to set bones and all and...  --And _you_ can stop laughing when you please, Dennis!"

  Dennis still could hardly stifle his amusement and with the help of the ensign got his flailing wife downstairs to the section clinic.  Within five minutes, the doctor transported in and regenerated the bone in Dacey's nose, a tired, accusatory look in his eyes.

  She was too ashamed to look at the ensign, who had politely remained to see the madwoman set back to right, watching steadily as the medical staff circled around in their work.  She could see her in the corner of her eye, and knew that expression.  How often Havaln had worn it!  How much time and experience had not altered some manners, while others so obviously had changed!  Reclined on the biobed, Dacey remained as still as she was quite able, waiting for her release.  As Dennis thanked Ensign Yar for her assistance and apologized for waylaying her, Dacey hoped that only embarrassment shone through her then.

  The young woman continued to watch even after the doctor had backed away and his nurse came to clean up Dacey's mess.  She did not desire nor expect gratitude, Dacey knew, but merely wanted to know with her own eyes and ears that the woman who had been injured in her presence was all right again.  She was taking care of the world around her, as ever she did.

  As ever she had.

  "Take me home, Dennis," Dacey whispered.  
 

  It was easier than it should have been to track the end of Natasha Yar's life, and she did so with a dispassion that others, had they been about her business, might have considered frosty.  For all her avoiding looking into the woman's history before--nothing there would have surprised her, after all--she did so now with full intent to know it all.

  Careful to cover her inquiries well, Dacey at last tapped into the Starfleet database and caught up with the ensign's meteoric career, which became the lieutenant's career not a month after their unfortunate crossing of paths.  She smiled at Yar's sketchy Federation record and peered wisely at the performance reviews.  Several months after her promotion, Lieutenant Yar, having acted with typical heroism during an away mission, was hand-picked to become Chief of Security on the new flagship of the Federation--a successor of Dacey's former ship, the Enterprise.  The man who selected her was the very same Captain Picard--so to speak--that Dacey had saluted two decades ago.  When she had read about Yar's initial assignment, it being different from what it had been in the other timeline, she had expected the rest to be different.  But the Enterprise and its crew had completely enveloped Yar's fate. 

  The ultimate symmetry was as predictable as it was sickening.  Dacey likened it to a gruesome programme to which she knew the ending...somewhat.

  Lieutenant Yar immediately began to rack up commendations, but Dacey did not smile at them.  The security chief's time there would not be long, and the end would come without honor.  Years ago, her charge had told her what was "supposed" to happen, and that it must again, no matter how dishonorable.

  Dacey was prepared for it, for Yar to go on holiday and fall off a cliff or jump onto a station and run into a force field the wrong way, or even choke on a fruit pit--anything to make a useless, foolish death worthy of sacrificial inspiration.  Each time Dacey came to her San Francisco office, she poked into the revolving inquiry and took a look, expecting just about anything.

  The unfortunate report she finally reviewed not only defied expectation, but also left her in a stupor.  Indeed, she stared at her monitor for a minute before believing it.

  "The bloody bartender was _wrong_ ," she breathed.

  But then, it _all_ was wrong--terribly wrong and unfair. 

  _For how could Havaln have been the wrong one?_ she silently demanded, glaring at the staid display.  _How could she take such a sense of dishonor to her grave when it wasn't true?  Why couldn't that younger one be the wrong one?_

  But it had to be that way.  The cycle had to turn as it had...and would.

  "Ul odrra biku hveh al gishti maushtoh."

  Hours after closing the file, she was settled on a pillow in the corner of her bedroom, turning her brooch over and over in her fingers.  There were no tears, only her whisper, barely audible...

  "Ul nivi mentrahkavor ika'gishti ar iglahk...."

  There would be no peace.  Not for her, not for the future, which soon would see the pattern begin again, her charge perish again and Dacey's soul lay bereft again to know what had been.  All roads led to emptiness, and preciousness cut heartlessly short.

  "Al iglahk pash'ik.  Tsurrhko ar gishti mi'urrv al pah'innu dioch'lu tik.  Puocha ar karmmil rek ul mi'urrv ar pah'inib."

  _"It is everything, Nih'orr,"_ she'd said, plain and soft as she'd closed the lid on the brooch in her fingers.  The clasp snapped softly, but it was loud in the little room.  _"And it is yours."_

  Years later, Dacey sat on her pillow, missing her charge as though she'd lost her yesterday.

  "Dacey!  Dacey, love!" called Mhairi up the stairs.  "We've got that hot spice tea you like, hot and ready!  Come down!"

  Drawing a breath, Dacey slipped the brooch chain over her head and uncurled herself.  She did not want to go and was far from hungry, but she didn't want questions.  Not now.  Not...not ever...

  "Dacey!"

  As she got to the door, her legs folded without her thinking to do it, and she found herself sitting in wait once again, waiting for...nothing.

  Nothing that lived.  Nothing she could touch any longer.

  And the sweet, wintry air filled her, and she saw Havaln, gazing at her like an angel, her hands clasped surely around hers as she spoke...

  _"...when a proper way is found, you'll see your husband and family again, Dacey.  I'll do everything I can to ensure that the general is able to keep his promise.  It's why I'm here, why I think I was meant to survive all that we have.  So you must never lose hope, and trust me."_

  Dacey's back bent, but with a few shuddering breaths, she managed to press her palms to the cool, wooden floor and push herself to stand.

  It was what she would have wanted, Dacey knew.  It was what she would have wanted.

  _Were it only what_ I _wanted..._

  If only she knew what that was.

  Her back bent as she opened the door.  Did she really know?  Would she ever know?

  "Dacey?"

  "I'm here, Mhairi," she called back.  With a breath, she made her back straighten and propelled herself down the hallway.  "Right here."  
 

  The nature of Lieutenant Yar's death had indeed proved a setback.  Finally having started to come out of her shell and enjoy a sense of balance in her life, meeting Yar had opened up a flood of emotions and habits she thought she had buckled down with time.  Calmly waiting for a young woman's to perish and seeing its incredible irony sent Dacey back into a protected state, much to Dennis' frustration.  For all his trying to get her to talk about why she acted the way she did, his most recent attempts were met with a blank stare and utter silence, which she held on to throughout her days, save her classes and the occasional argument, which ensured her ability to withdraw again.

  _Poor man,_ Dacey sighed to herself.  _The only thing I've been constant about is that we're still married._

  And yet, she could not see a way to right herself again.  Not that she felt any real impetus to fix what couldn't be fixed; it wasn't as though she hadn't expected tragedy for Natasha Yar--and knew it must be, so that the timeline could circle properly.  It was what Havaln had wanted and secured at a fatal cost.  Why should the inevitable make her feel as she had upon her return home fourteen years ago?

  Not that those issues concerned her for as long as even she had expected.

  Suddenly, bizarrely, miraculously, another concern had managed to divert her.  
 

  Standing on the front patio of her house not nine months after Yar's death, Dacey stared at the stone wall and the field of thick lawn inside it.  There, the transporter beam had taken her old friend away, and the only thing that Dacey could figure out was that her past had quite the habit of catching her all unawares and leaving her to pick up the pieces. 

  For now she'd just had another great shock, and she was left staring at that empty field, knowing that what she felt that time was more like anything she'd known since the day her duty had been snatched from her.  That time, she had something behind her that she wanted to get to, and instead of setting her back or burdening her, she felt the desire to leap _forward_ for the first time in so many years.  This was such an amazing, alien idea to her, it took her several minutes of stillness to grasp it.

  She glanced behind her.  It was still true.

  Not fifteen minutes ago, she had taken her PADDs out onto the front porch, where a bright sun had nixed the frost of the night before enough to tempt her out of the den.  Squeezing a thick lemon wedge over her steaming glass of replicated okorrun tea, she bent to read one of a number of reports she needed to have ready at week's end.  Her lesson plan sat on the next PADD, and on a third were a number of conferences she needed to think about accepting or declining.  Her husband was to attend some meetings in San Francisco soon; he would be back later to coach their oldest niece for her physics course.  Her father, Marcas, Tim and Lorna were long gone in the fields while Mhairi and Jan prepared the long trolley for transport to Craigellachie.  Meanwhile, her sister-in-law Corinne, big with her fourth and fifth children, waddled out to enjoy the weather, too, with some wool she'd just spun in the den the night before, a crochet hook and a thick mug of warm cider.  It was the usual Monday business, just another day on the farm during a school holiday.

  There were ten children, in fact, living on the farm just then, three to sixteen, and four of them were scampering out and about the front garden with flags and bats, their hair bouncing up into the air, laughing full-throated.  Through the marshy garden, still laced with pockets of soggy ice bound to freeze again that night, they ploughed their way out to the pasture beyond the barn for a game that would last through the afternoon.  They were loud and bothersome, savage and utterly free. 

  _And you used to be one of them,_ Dacey recalled, her eyes following them for some time.  For no good reason lately, her heart ached to think of herself as ever having been young.

  The door creaked and a familiar footstep matched the glimpse of a black boot in her peripheral vision.  "Off, then?" she quietly asked.

  "Aye," Dennis replied.  "See you tonight."  With no more, he was gone, his case strap slung over his shoulder and not looking back as he walked straight to the gate.

  Dacey only glanced up when her husband was almost over the adjacent hill then out of sight in the grasses.  She went back to her work. 

  "You might think up a nice night for your anniversary," said Corinne as she wrapped the yarn and pulled the needle with deft fingers without looking.  "Twenty-five's a fine one."

  "It's twenty-three this year," Dacey muttered, tapping at her PADD and frowning at the garble of data there.  It was quite a matter when someone her age felt a need to teach Academy graduates how to write a simple file summary.  Her junior class in Paris could make better work of it.  "He'll be out the fortnight 'round the date again in any case."

  Corinne sighed.  "Not to say you shouldn't try."

  "Maybe so, but for the while, you should _stop_ trying."

  "Dennis needs attention, too, Dacey, is what I'm saying."

  "Dennis is a man who can and does ask after he wants, and I've got no patience for intrusions.  Leave me be, Corinne.  I've got work to do."

  Pushing herself to her feet, her sister-in-law went inside, slamming the door behind her.

  Dacey didn't blink.  Corinne always dropped the door when she was peeved for lack of anything better to do about a situation.  Marcas had met his match in her when they were in secondary school, and so Dacey was long used to it.

  The field reports were a slow business, hastily scribbled notes tucked into tubes and shot into Federation space--the least detectable matter:  Space garbage.  Dacey had been half blind upon translating the last scroll, for all her squinting at it.  But it was worth it to take a day away from the office, where a complete lack of new information had inspired Pellija to ask her to revisit the past thirty years' worth of intelligence and find a pattern.  Again.

  "The Tal Shiar's making a move," Dacey had flatly reminded him at yet another meeting-to-have-a-meeting.  "We've been watching them insinuate themselves into the daily functioning of the Romulan government since I came aboard.  They've gained substantial power and have no check for their brutality, having seen the last of their most potent enemies."

  Most recently, General Tokarel.

  But the admiral wanted a why and wherefore, though everyone knew she was gazing into a dry well for want of a reflection.  While the reports they did have were intriguing, very little else was trickling thorough; most of their agents had become alarmingly silent.  She'd been able to finish writing a second tome on sociolinguistics without much diversion, but rather some anxious curiosity.

  Still, she did enjoy digging into the guts of Romulus, and she did tend to regret missing nice days outside, when the sun tempered the coolness she longed for during half of the year, and the odors of turf and soil mixed in the air.  Yes, it was worth the noisier space.  Solid in her reputation now, her family left her alone when she told them to, so aside from the occasional interruption or bleating of sheep in the distance, she was able to focus on her immediate, if not repetitive, analyses.

  That was before she saw the transporter beam in a random glance at the front garden.

  Appearing within the swirl of particles was a long figure in a brown cloak.  It billowed out at all ends as the man within it, hardly waiting for his matter to finish materializing, strode directly to the farmhouse.  He looked like a Vulcan at first glance, but as she set her PADD aside and rose, her eyes grew wide.  His face did not try to hide his urgency, and his face was one she knew.  She squinted and ran his visage through her mental database.  Indeed, it was what she first thought--not a Vulcan, but a Romulan. 

  And not just any Romulan. 

  "Annok?" she breathed as he neared.

  "You remember me," he answered, huffing as though he'd _run_ from orbit.

  She could not address the idiotic acknowledgment.  "What the devil are you doing here?" she asked instead, caught between a laugh and complete confusion.  Of all the ghosts of her past, Annok, Son of Jevorr, was about the last one she had ever expected to see trudge across the front garden.

  If he noticed her astonishment at all, he obviously chose not to care about it.  Crossing the stones then coming up the front steps, he stopped a meter before her.  "I need your help," he told her.

  "Quick work you made of that," Dacey remarked, gesturing to the house.  "Well of course, come in, come--"

  "I cannot afford the honor," he cut in.  "Instead, I must ask you a great duty:  In return for your safe deliverance, provided by my people, I need you to return the same."

  "Me?"

  "You are one of us."

  Dacey's brow furrowed.  "What is happening?" she asked him, her thanks for the compliment in the form of speaking now in Movagh Romulan.

  He blinked at her improved inflection.  Dacey had learned early into her career as a tevol'oc that the Romulan tongue with a proper accent sounded far better to sensitive Romulan ears, and that speaking their dialect when it wasn't Capital was a great compliment.  With that, Annok took a moment to decide on his words then said quietly, "You know what great importance a Romulan places on his family?"

  Dacey coughed a short laugh.  "I have not forgotten that."

  "Have you not forgotten our ways?  Plainly, you remember Morvagh, so I assume you remember the other regions' speech."

  "I am well versed in them all," she assured him, eyeing him askance, now.  It was unlike the Annok she remembered to ask so many ridiculous questions.

  "Do you remember the ancient chants and rituals?"

  "I work regularly with Romulan dialects, and I continue practice the customs as well as I am able.  I have not forgotten any of the education I earned among your people.  Rather, I honor it.  Why do you question me?"

  Annok unclasped his heavy cloak, revealing in his arm a sleeping toddler.

  Dacey's eyes rounded.  "You are not thinking of--"

  "She is all that remains of my family, save me," Annok interjected again.  "Her parents are executed.  Her parents, Dacey...  My father and his wife Sara:  They were captured and executed.  This is their child, my half-sister, orphaned."

  Dacey's blood vacated her face and limbs, and she forgot her current concerns altogether.  Immediately and without another word, she knew every detail of her friends' deaths.  "Annok...  My most heartfelt sympathies."

  "My brother Nolovod is also gone.  Malid has disappeared...my gentle sister."

  "I cannot imagine your loss," Dacey whispered.  "We have had many reports of a brutal shift in the Empire with the rise of the Tal Shiar, but for several years, few specifics have reached us."

  "Few have survived to tell their stories."

  "Yes.  I have been disseminating pebbles in a desert."

  "The leadership has been vigilant in their isolation," Annok informed her.  "In this New Order, the military has grown ruthless, first in its defense but now in its corruption.  It has been infected with that which it once sought to destroy.  Now, the Tal-Shiar's brutality goes unchecked, and citizens of the Empire, loyalist and liberal alike, maintain silence for fear of accusation, which now falls upon even the most judicious of my race.  Father's mere association with the underground was enough to slay us all, but marrying Sara publicly in the old rite and espousing their ideals for the future set our enemy's purpose on fire.  But I will not blame him--or Sara, for in her love for Father she embraced our way and always worked tirelessly for the good of a free Romulus."

  "Yes, they both were good, most honorable people."  Dacey's heart continued to sink as she heard Jevorr and Sara's pleasant voices and easy laughter, even amid the difficult topics they lived, and saw their free spirited manners and movements.  How different they had been to each other, yet bound by what Dacey still called a perfect kind of love and camaraderie.  "I will mourn them properly."

  Annok's eyes held hers without sentiment, however.  "This is the only safety possible for their child, my half-sister.  You are our one remaining option."

  "What other option was there?"

  "One that is too unsafe."  He took a step closer to her, staring hard into her eyes.  "You will respect my wishes and bring her into your family, Dacey, for all we have given you."

  Snapped back to the moment, Dacey felt her gut wrench on top of everything else.  The toddler, a girl no more than two, rested awkwardly in his arm, her fair face pressed against his chest.  She was small and thin with awkwardly triangular ears.  Her oddly cropped dark hair was not unusual in color, but her unhealthy appearance otherwise would make her dead quickly enough in Romulan space, even in slave circles.

  Even then, she had to ask, "I never had children.  I do not know how to be a mother."

  "You have cared for others exceptionally."

  She acknowledged the regard with a blink then returned her attention to the child.  "Would you be back for her?"

  "No.  Nor will I be able to visit her.  I must entrust her to your care.  School her as you see fit, but I only ask you teach her about the way of our ancestors, and hopefully, our future."  His lips turned up.  "I understand that this is surprising.  We have not met since Nesig-Ros.  But you must know we have not forgotten you."

  "You have come from the Mindra, then?" she asked, brightening at the thought.

  His eyes turned down.  "Regrettably, no.  I have not heard from or about Kalir since shortly after your crew left us.  I, Kolijra and Mostrak parted with Kalir at Nesig-Ros; we remained at the station to join the Parudon, where we have served since, near my father and Sara.  I have only come from Romulan territory this season with her."

  Dacey sighed.  "Yes, that was too good to be possible."  Her eyes returned to the child.  "What is her name?"

  "Chaldra."

  "Dawn light," Dacey translated quietly.  It was an ancient name, from long before the Great Awakening, and popular among old-school Romulans.

  At that, the child's deep green eyes opened, and she looked first at her hand, and then noticed Dacey.  A wild little thing, Dacey thought first, in that stare, almost primal.  And indeed, a child so thin would be living on instincts, she guessed.  As though reading her thoughts, the child whispered, "Makroa ef viidri...mawra ef."

  Dacey started at the statement.  "When is the last time the child ate?"

  Annok had to think.  "Earlier today, a little."

  Shaking her head, Dacey sighed.  "Well, certainly, I will take her, Annok.  I can do nothing to honor your people enough--your father and Sara particularly.  I can do this.  --I do not know yet _how_ I will do it, but I will."  Reaching out to the child, she extracted her from Annok's arm and laughed a little when the girl clutched onto her like a monkey.  "Well now!" Dacey exclaimed, but found her arms wrapping warmly around Chaldra before she could think to do so.  Giving Annok a smirk, she added, "You thought I might fall in love, as well?"

  Annok's lips turned up again.  "That was also a consideration, yes."  Looking gently at his half-sister, he added, "She will need much love.  She has nothing else."

  Dacey nodded.  "Where will you go?"

  "Back.  I must continue my work.  I must vindicate what my family has sacrificed in the name of peace and freedom.  But now I will do so knowing they will not destroy us all."

  "Do your enemies know about her?" Dacey asked.

  "They know of her existence," he replied, "but they do not know what happened to us after I reclaimed her."

  "How did you do that?"

  "By force."

  Her brow flicked up with appreciation.  "Thus you disappear--and so does she."

  "In the last place they will look for her," he confirmed.  "Even her name is different.  --Do not be concerned.  She is accustomed to it."

  Dacey's breath picked up, and she suddenly remembered her tea tray.  Reaching down, she opened a cup and took out a lemon wedge.  Picking out the seeds with a squeeze of her fingers, she told Annok, "She will like it, I think, if she has been raised with Romulan food."  Slipping it into Chaldra's skinny fingers, she told her, "Take this.  It is like trigau, but cool." 

  The toddler carefully put the wedge between her little teeth and bit.  Blinking with some surprise, she smiled a little.  Nodding, Dacey motioned her to keep eating.  "There is more; eat all you want, Chaldra.  Soon, you will take your midday meal."

  And she knew she was suddenly feeling a kind of energy she'd not had in a long while, like when she'd decided to focus on teaching thanks to working with Emily that summer, or when she was inspired to seek out Pellija--the energy derived from using what she knew.  But it was even more than that.  All her focus now was turning to the waif, and she felt anxious to see what else Chaldra would eat, what medical care she might need and whom to see for that, how to put some flesh on those bones, and what clothes they might have that would fit....

  "I cannot remain, Dacey," Annok told her, snapping her from her thoughts.

  "You would leave now?  Can you--"

  "The relay craft is waiting for me and will return me to my ship immediately.  They merely think I deliver a package."

  Dacey snorted.

  "Hello there!" came a chirp from the door then Mahdi through it.  "Oh, Dacey, you _are_ here, and..."  She focused on the ragged urchin who'd jumped when she came into view, sitting on her daughter's hip with a lemon in her mouth, and then the urgent look on the otherwise Vulcan face within a heavy hood.  Her mother's face flushed then paled as she put it together.  Dacey gave her the time to do it, understanding that Moray had not once offered her such a view.  At last, sound made its way to her tongue.  "What's all this?"

  "Nothing too shocking, Ma," Dacey breezed in Standard, "but just that the insurgents caught up with me and I've adopted a bairn."

  "Dacey Ann, you've none of it!"

  "Aye, I did, in fact."

  Mahdi frowned, furrowed her brow, shook her head and laughed all at the same time.  She motioned to Annok.  "So who the devil is this one?  The insurgent half, I assume?"

  "An old friend who helped see to it your daughter got home," Dacey informed her, "and you've not seen him for your life.  This is his half-sister, whose parents are no more.  So, she's to be one of us, lest we better like our children cooked on a spit."

  "What will Dennis say?"

  "Whatever he pleases, I'm sure."  Feeling the girl shiver hard against her, Dacey grabbed her shawl to put around her.  "If he doesn't like it, he can pack his gear and help himself to another hike.  You know I love him, Ma, but the lass stays right here.  --And damn you, again, Annok.  Now I've got to milk the bloody goat for today's already gone to cheese and Corinne's too peeved to do it for me."

  The mother smiled at her daughter.  "It's been a long while since I've seen you bubble over, Dacey," she told her.  "It's a fine sight.  So I'll milk Moosie, you look after the lass, there, and it'll all iron out."  With a bow of her head to Annok, a roll of her eyes, she left them.  Once inside, she called out for Corinne to get out her gloves and bucket.

  Dacey smiled with the familiarity of the sound, even in that newness...and oldness.

  Annok, too, looked fondly after the mother.  "Your family resides here."

  "It is a farm family," Dacey confirmed, again in Romulan.  "I and Dennis are the only officials among us; Mother and Father, my brother and his family and our three cousins and their families manage the land and livestock.  Our grandparents travel, but return home regularly.  We work hard and disagree often, but we love each other."  She sighed to herself.  "Yes, we do love each other a great deal."

  He processed that privately for a few moments then nodded.  "This was a good choice."  Pulling his cloak together, he motioned to the bag he had brought and dropped by the steps.  "Those are some things for her."

  He knelt before his sister, whom Dacey had lowered to sit on the sofa with her lemon slice and thick wool shawl.  Taking in her big eyes, touching her pale cheek, Annok leaned forward and pressed his forehead to her brow.  "Remember me, Chaldra," he said, trying for some strength.  Plainly, he did not want to leave his baby sister behind.  "Dacey will help you, help you know us all.  Know most of all, Chaldra Mairil, that our family has tried to make our future one of peace and true greatness...and know you are loved."

  The toddler smiled and hugged him.  "Arrichik ha'l ce, Nabnoch," she whispered.

  Swallowing his sigh, Annok directed the toddler to her lemon slice.  Chaldra bit in heartily, humming with pleasure.

  When he straightened, Dacey touched his face with her index finger in farewell and said in Romulan, "Contact me when and if you can.  We will arrange a channel, or a visit.  We will come to you wherever you are."

  He returned the gentle gesture, stroking her cheek briefly before letting his hand fall.  "I will attempt to contact you soon, but do not wait."

  With that, he turned and quickly strode away from the house, into the thick lawn, stopping at some distance near the stone wall.  The wind snapped his cloak around in his pause, and she could see him draw a deep breath.  Dacey thought for a moment that he might look back once again, but then the transporter took him, leaving her to stare at the empty field, wondering indeed if Dennis would divorce her that time, where the lass should sleep, and what else might appear in the field if she kept looking at it.

Dacey coughed, shaking her head.  "Great Star guide me," she whispered to herself then turned back to Chaldra.  
 

  "What the devil do you think you're doing, Dacey?!" Dennis demanded upon the completion of her nutshell explanation.  His face suffused as he swung an arm toward the door.  "What're you up to _this_ time?"

  " _Mothering_ , obviously.  Dry your eyes and get over it."

  "But a Romulan bairn!"

  Dacey planted her fists on her hips.  "What of it?" she challenged.  "I was a Romulan slave.  The people who got me back into your loving arms were Romulan ex-slave dissidents.  The bairn is a half-Romulan orphan whose half-Romulan parents fought the good fight and were slaughtered like pigs in a Romulan marketplace.  You want to get a look at Chaldra and help her to that, too?  You'll have to go through _me_ , Sammy!"

  "We'll have to tell Starfleet," he persisted.  "My career, your position with Pellija's office--we'll be considered security risks.  You know that, aye?"

  "They can have a go at me, too, they merely suggest she go elsewhere."  Pushing her shoulders down, Dacey blew her breath.  "And I don't _know_ where I'd got any of this!  I'd never planned for us to have a baby, seeing as we never took the steps we needed to make it be.  But when I saw her...and knowing what would happen to her were she back there--what happened to her parents, such good, honest people, and knowing what I left behind there...  God, Dennis, I've never let it go, and I'm so, so sorry for what that's had to have done to you.  You've aye been so patient with me--you're either a fool or mad in love.  But I still say no.  I know what they'll do to her, given life or death, and I won't allow either.  She was entrusted to me, so that's how it's got to be.  Done." 

  She breathed a little sigh at the memory of that word.  She totally understood its meaning, now, and she felt it thud in her heart and sink deep into her very soul.  "Done."

  It would always be so clear to her....

  "Done."  The word was but a breath now.

  Dennis' stare remained hard on the woman before him, slight in frame as ever with her hair sticking out at all angles and two booted feet planted flat on the floor.  She blinked herself out of the distraction to feel that stare.  "What are you looking at?" she said, quiet but defiant, ready for more.

  His face remained straight.  "God, it's like looking at you in your old uniform," he mused aloud.  Shaking his head, he let his hands fall to his sides.  "Twenty years later, I've got my wife back.  But I don't know if I want it this time."

  "Then don't take it," she replied tiredly.

  He grumbled under his breath, pulled a sharp breath and said, "I've never had a say in all that's happened to you, Dacey.  I'm glad you know you've put me out...and perhaps I _am_ a fool to have lived like this.  But you've got to know it's exasperating.  It took years for me to learn to know you again; now you finally come on, and it's nothing to do with us, what we've held onto all these years.  It's like you're throwing sand in my face.  You don't ask if I want to be a father to this little thing who'll change everything about our lives and possibly our careers.  You just say that the lassie's staying and you're a mother now and to take it or not, and...  I don't know if I want this-- _any_ of it!  I've got some thinking to do--about _our_ future-- _our_ family."

  "Well, that bit _would_ be your problem, wouldn't it?"  Huffing with impatience, she strode to the wardrobe and fished a hand into it.  "I'm doing what Chaldra needs for her having more people wanting her dead than alive.  But I want her alive and well more than the whole of her enemies--and you'd want it, too, if you knew a jot of what you're talking about.  If you'd like to be a part of it despite all you don't know, I'd love that, and I'd want you by my side in it all.  I personally think you'd be exceptional, but you clearly need some control over whatever you need control over.  Get back to me when you've got your chuffy back on, or you certainly have learned where the door is at your convenience." 

  Throwing her shawl over her shoulder, she left the bedroom. Briefly, she was tempted to pause, hoping he'd come out behind her, but she ploughed on through the hallway for the stairs before her heart got the better of her.

  A part of her knew she was being pigheaded and probably might have handled his response more gracefully.  And truly, she did not take for granted that indeed he had stayed all that time with a distant, secretive wife.  "Definitely a fool," she muttered.  She knew she loved him, but she was _not_ graceful, and the child needed her.  Annok would not have come all the way to Scotland, Earth to deposit the last member of his embattled family were it not for incredible need--and trust.

  She descended the stairs smoothly without touching the rail.

  She had not been needed like that in almost thirteen years, and she had so wanted for being of some purpose.  Periods of usefulness had come up, but as quickly had been resolved.  She'd had no one to serve; the one she'd been dedicated to was dead, and none had replaced her.

  Dacey stopped on the bottom step.

  She'd had no one to serve but herself since then.

  Without thinking, she wiped at her face.  There was water on it.  She looked at the alien gleam on her fingers until the thought hit her.

  She was needed again.

  _Needed._

  She looked back up the flight.

  At last.  
 

  The next morning, Dacey woke to an empty bed.  This was a common condition, and so she pulled herself out from the blankets without complaint, scooted her feet into her slippers, hurried into the girls' room and shushed the older ones whilst she checked on the new arrival. 

  Chaldra was still asleep in the little bed that Marcas had pulled from the attic for her, and she remained happily half-buried under a pile of quilts.  Though March usually proved pleasant enough, the nights that year had blasted Baltic lows that had even Marcas chattering his teeth when he came in for breakfast from a field frozen solid.  The accompanying wind likewise managed to drive a nagging chill into the old stone house, its companions and especially their newest denizen, who had burrowed herself in Dacey's shawl and practically climbed into her dress after sunset. 

  Dacey, holding the shivering child close, had demanded that the other women help her amend the situation, lest the bairn die of the elements not a day into her adoption.  Horrified by the child's intolerance to their home, Mahdi, Corinne, Lorna and Mhairi had sprung into action, digging through the girls' old frocks and woolens to try to find things small enough for the two year-old and deciding aloud what must be replicated later.  Then, once Chaldra had been fed and rocked and storied until she had fallen fast asleep, the women had gathered an array of fluffy quilts and snuggled her within them on what the girls swore was the warmest part of their room.

  Now, Dacey's lips turned up to see Chaldra draw a puff of breath then settle again, reaching up to tug at a lock of dark hair.  It had crinkled with washing but it was heavy.  It would straighten again.  Her small, pink mouth opened and closed, reminding Dacey that the child needed a good deal of protein to start her off.  Though Chaldra appeared red-blooded, she likely had a fair portion of Romulan physiology, so she had been lined up to see a Vulcan physician of "particular discretion" at the Starfleet auxiliary office next to the university offices in Paris.  Dacey had an appointment with Admiral Pellija, having already spoken to him at length after the baby had been settled down for the night.  He in fact had contacted Dr. Sivor and secured the appointment.

  Chaldra hadn't stirred for all the other girls' shuffling about, nor at the new mother's intrusion, so Dacey turned back for her bedroom and took a quick shower, neatened her hair, brushed on a little makeup and dressed in her usual stockings, frock, shawl and boots.  Then, after checking on the girl again, she hurried down to the kitchen.  Ignoring the others there, she quietly got together some goat's milk, lemon juice and a bowl of replicated hashat berries.  Blending those together, she set the bowl on the warmer, replicated a few beaten eggs (she did not touch real eggs, though they were delicious and plentiful, there) then mixed in some oats, flour, grated lemon, goat cheese, butter, water and bitter greens for tiny rounds she patted out and set on a plate.  She worked in quiet automation, letting her family decide what they would about what she was doing.

  "Need those toasted in the skillet?" asked Mahdi, already at the old aga range and well beyond thinking her daughter odd.

  "Aye Ma, thanks," Dacey replied, working the last cake.  "Just cooked through."  She handed the plate to her niece, who was passing by with a bottle of oil.  "Hand that as well to your grannie, will you, Meggie?" she ordered and crossed the other way to wash her hands. Before the water had loosed the sticky meal from her fingers, she had already mentally ordered how the day should proceed.

  As the other kids trundled into the kitchen for their breakfast, Dacey went back upstairs to welcome Chaldra to her first day in her new home.  When she walked into the room, the toddler's eyes opened.  Dacey smiled and lowered herself to her knees by the bedside.  The little girl had her father's hair and eyes; the rest looked to be her natural mother's features, and Dacey felt a stab of new mourning to remember they were dead, and how they had died.  Someday, Dacey knew she would have to explain that.  Thankfully, that conversation was a long way off.

  Easing the layers aside a little, she touched the toddler's cheek with a finger.  She had made certain to keep her hands in her pockets so she wouldn't be too terribly cold to the girl.  "Chaldra lochrak iba korrol cho?  --Would you rise now from the bed, Chaldra?" she asked her.  "Iglavi madrechop to'iba nalohk.  --The day is ready for you to take."

  Chaldra smiled and nodded, reaching out into the cool air for her.  "Eba iguacios a'ves," she whispered with a lisp that was natural in Romulan toddlers.  "Hagah pah not riviri?"

    _Mother, I am happy to wake. Is it dutiful to take first meal now?_

  Dacey snatched up a throw and wrapped it around the girl as she lifted her from the bed.  "Eba chovirr ch'racios pah olmad," she said, choking back tears.

  A half-hour later, the toddler was washed and dressed in a woolen frock and stockings; a thick coat, mittens and large, fluffy bonnet soon covered those.  Taking her by a gloved hand, she led the girl down the back steps, through the end of the kitchen and outside to the garden.  If Chaldra noticed the family finishing their breakfasts or Dennis coming in from the transport, she didn't slow down to study them.  Instead, she dutifully hobbled though, her handed-down fleecy boots thumping on the wood at her adoptive mother's side.  When they crossed into a flat part of the garden, Dacey kneeled and set out a canvas square.  Chaldra let Dacey lead her to stand upon it and looked at her to see what was next.

  Dacey reached out and stroked Chaldra's mittened hand to lie flat, then raised and turned it so that her palm faced toward the sun; then she closed her fingers, covering them softly with her own.  Understanding now, Chaldra moved her fist in a little circle then looked at Dacey again.  "Igah toh?" she asked.

  "Jul.  --Yes.  Habbak, Chaldra.  --That's correct, Chaldra."

  The girl smiled and looked out at the rising sun.

  "Iglahk khar mi'urrv migret hochok au.  --Give us strength and courage in our duty, Great Star.  Uera'tik puocha mich'as ag davo erl pah.  --Let it feed our bodies and keep us on the path of honor.  Iglahk toh.  --Guide us, Great Star."

  "Igah toh."

  Dacey's heart raced to hear the baby repeat it.  Apparently, Annok had either instilled or reinforced the custom that Jevorr had practiced so lovingly.  For her part, in all those years of thinking or whispering it into her morning, she'd gotten no response.  Now she did, and it was a wonderful thing.  She and Sandra were going to have to have a chat about that, too.  But that was another day--another enlightening day.  Raising her hand, she started the next line.

  "Iglahk toh au tiki chabbrolg.  --Great Star, guide us, give us strength.  Vishib au zal chem i ag nivi'omu at nurruta.  --Cleanse our purpose and bring us to stand before you with pride.  --Havasyiad."

  "Havasad."

  As they continued, she saw Dennis in the corner of her eye move out into the garden, away from their curious family.  She turned her gaze forward again, but still listened for the crunch of his boots in the thick, frosty turf, the brush of his coat against his legs as he steadily neared them.  At last, she cocked her head just enough to catch his gaze.  He offered her a small smile.  She returned it, though she knew hers had to possess a fair dose of insecurity.  That he was there and smiling at her at all was a good sign, but she knew she hardly deserved it.  She was glad for it all the same...and thankful.  Very thankful.

  A tiny arm wrapped around Dennis' leg.  Looking down at the thin but comely toddler, he sighed and bent to touch her hair.  Then he regained his wife's attention.

  "Of course I would never dream of sending her anywhere else or leaving you to fend for yourself in this, Dacey," he said, choking a little on the cold air.  The hurt was still there, but so was the love, despite her and despite it all.  "What sort of person do you think you married?"

  "The finest kind, apparently," she whispered, her eyes shining into his.  All the ways he could have had far better than the one _he_ had married ached within her guilty heart.  But the fool indeed had never left her and may well never, so she asked, "Want to learn it, too?"

  He lowered himself to a knee on the other side of the girl.  "That chanting's from your books, then?"

  She shook her head.  "We all greeted the Great Star at daybreak on Romulus," she told him as though it were the simplest fact.  But then she realized that in all those years, he couldn't have known that.  She had never chanted in his presence, never spoke the words she'd been living by aloud, though he would have heard them, and would have accepted their place in her heart.

  Steeling a breath, she closed her fingers on that third handful of the cool, rising sun and gave him a nod.  "Like this, my love...."

* * *

   
  Dr. Kerr sat in Ten-Forward, gazing at the card portrait of her family.  Indeed, her new favorite image was of her sitting on a boulder by Dennis and Chaldra amongst the sheep near the west field stile. 

  Eight now, Chaldra's hair had grown long, fit for thick sable braids on each side of her head and ties of wide, red ribbons.  Inside this array was a round, happy face with bright hazel green eyes that crinkled when she smiled.  Standing smart and straight on the lumpy green turf, she had on her dark kilt and vest with thick wool stockings, black mary janes, a white blouse, and a wide plaid of red with green--the Kerr family tartan--draped over a shoulder and buckled at the waist.  But for her ears, she looked quite the decked-out native.  Dr. Kerr was in her usual black dress, boots and plaid shawl, perched up on the rock with her arms on her knees.  Dennis leaned on the boulder between them in his dress uniform, a proud father clearly wrapped around his little girl's finger.  They had come back from a school programme that afternoon and marched right out to watch a lambing.

  "She's such a daddy's girl," Dr. Kerr beamed, "and full of passion, smart as the devil.  She's one of us."  There, her smile lost its strength.  She had learned of Annok's fate through a new agent's report not a year after he left Chaldra with her.  He had been captured, tortured over a series of days then publicly executed.  Before that tragedy, soon after his visit, he had suggested in some databanks that his half-sister had died of a congenital disease and was 'discarded.' It killed the trail--or at least no Romulan worthy of his blood would bother verifying the death of a dissident's hybrid defect.

  "She means the world to Dennis and me--all of us, in fact."

  "She's a beautiful child," Guinan acknowledged.  "Does she know about her origins?"

  Dr. Kerr glanced at the woman, but did not address her queer curiosity.  She'd been told all about that, and so she simply answered, "Aye, what she can for her age.  Her parents were excellent, dedicated people, and I do all I can to honor them." 

  To add to the eternal gratitude she felt for her husband's Herculean patience, she also had been thankful for Admiral Pellija, who turned out to be as good a person as she could have hoped for.  He had read her's reports on the Romulan people over the years with an open mind, and so he had not judged when he first met the toddler in question.  Immediately, he had arranged to handle all the meetings he must have with others in Starfleet Command, the records they must build and the medical people they must secure, to give the girl the best and safest home possible on Earth.

  He had also listened with great sympathy to her further story about her experience with Sara, Jevorr and those who had worked with them.  According to an obituary Annok had personally penned--an old tradition he upheld per his father's wishes--their last mission had been to help free a group of captive dissidents at Trarnog.  Having gotten them as far at the colony, Sara remained behind with the baby as Jovorr and the others got into the camp and transported three quarters of the prisoners to a waiting ship.  Reinforcements arrived by that time, but Jevorr remained at the controls, stubbornly getting as many more as he could before he was stunned.  Forces then fanned out over the colony to capture the remaining insurgents.

  Upon their imminent capture, Sara gave baby Mairil to a family she believed would respect her request and give the child to her brother when he arrived.  Sara was promptly arrested and thrown into a cell with her husband to await their gruesome fate.  Unwilling to be endangered, the family confessed the alien woman's plot and brought Mairil to be collected.  Annok swooped in and snatched his sister away just as the authorities had put their gloved hands upon her, leaving an untold number of dead behind him and spiriting them off to his relay craft. 

  Meanwhile, his father and stepmother were sentenced to death, brought to the homeworld and, according to underground onlookers, forced to endure several hours of public example efficiently magnified by Romulus' newly installed Tal Shiar officers.  Sara gave in a full shuti before Jevorr took his final breath, dying with their hands still bound together.  The board holding them upright was then burned until no evidence of them remained.

  Annok followed them head-first into death only months later.

  Brutally executed one by one, they all were gone, but Dr. Kerr had been determined from the day of Annok's visit that they would never be forgotten.  She even kept pictures of Sara, Jevorr and Annok in her office and at home, in her small but well-kept hall of honored dead.

  Per her request and Starfleet Command's assent, the whole matter of Jevorr and his family's tragic fate was closed in a confidential file for the child's sake.  Official adoption papers were drawn up, and Chaldra Kerr was registered as of Human and Vulcan descent--all true in its way, and she and Dennis had no difficulty letting that little lie be for the time being.  Interestingly, the little girl, through no direction of her adoptive parents, knew better than to talk about her origin to anyone outside the family, even when she was little.  Romulans were born circumspect in some important ways, and she remained thankful for it there.  Even with her friends, Chaldra had no difficulty with the dichotomy. 

  "I've enjoyed great fortune in my life," Dr. Kerr said, almost to herself, then.

  "And you were given a wonderful gift," Guinan agreed.

  "Aye."  Her full mouth curled up peculiarly.  "I got lots of gifts in that little bundle...."

* * *

   
  "Seep!  Dey go up ta fied!  Ma!  Ook at ta seep!"

  "Aye, they seep," Dacey replied.

  "Oh, Dacey!" Mahdi laughed then looked at little Chaldra.  "Your Ma's so silly, is she not?"

  "Ma is my _madah_ ," the toddler replied gravely.

  "Not a bannock nor a llama," Cal rejoined.

  Chaldra blinked and looked between them all and frowned.  They all laughed.

  "Poor lass, what you've got to endure," Dacey chuckled, wiggling Chaldra's leg before setting the last group of data chips onto a safety tray.  "The sheep will come round again.  Uncle Marcas is taking them west today."

  Lying face down on the blanket they'd laid out that lovely spring afternoon, she sifted through sloppily labeled datachip headers whilst the grandparents giggled and petted on Chaldra, who continued to point at the hill where the sheep had disappeared as she handily devoured another hunk of cheese.  (The child had quickly gained a few favorite foods:  lemons and tart green apples, mustard, cabbage and strong cheese, all much to the delight of the family.)  It was the end of a perfect luncheon on the garden, which they had come to share often of late.  Grannie Ann and Pap, home for a while from their tour of the Jetol Cluster, came out when the grass grew warm.  Even Marcas and Corinne with newborns Andrew and Jane, Mhairi and Jack and the other cousins had been joining them, a convenient way to steal a break and a snack before getting back to work.

  Spring had passed, and while slight in build, Chaldra's face had filled in a little and she had already grown a centimeter.  Most apparently, everyone had lost their hearts to the steady little girl, Dacey in particular.  The day after the girl's arrival, Dacey arranged to remote-teach, leaving her graduate assistant to be on hand for her classes.  After that semester, she would take a full leave from the university until Chaldra was in school so she could devote time to her alongside consulting and writing.  She and Dennis were working on his knowledge of Jihrrahk and Movagh Romulan; meanwhile, the girl had already got a passing grip on Earth Standard, not to mention particular bits of the local Scottish slang from her many human cousins and plain-spoken uncle--much to Mahdi's great horror.

  The girl's health and papers all arranged, and having rearranged her life in response to the responsibilities she had taken on out of the blue, Dacey finally got around to emptying the bag Annok had left for his sister. 

  On her first perusal of the bag the day after Chaldra's arrival, aside from a ball of pitiful clothes, infant puzzles and a PADD with Chaldra's birth and medical records, she had found a number of data chips sealed in a thermasleeve.  Dacey had mined the last items with great interest, hoping they were what she thought they were:  Fresh intelligence.  Dumping the chips out onto a safety tray and setting the nearly transparent pieces into an adapter unit (Romulan data chips were designed to be able to be hidden on one's person), Dacey checked the headers for anything immediately important to give to Admiral Pellija.  By the time the day was through, she had classified half as interesting.  Some details she encrypted for immediate review.  The rest was old intelligence that could wait until their next quarterly meeting.

  Three months later, with that meeting impending, she took the chips and the adapter out again to prepare them for presentation, setting them in a safety tray and joining her family for a picnic while she worked.

  She was nearly finished with them by one o'clock, and praised the good timing of it.  Emily would be herding the kids from school in a couple of hours, her own little one in tow and a stack of tablets to mark.  Dennis would be home an hour after that, as would Brian, trudging back from the transport in town.  Chaldra would want for a rest about an hour before all that chaos should begin.  The outdoor luncheon should make that an easy task.

  Deciding to prepare the last files there and have it all behind her, she suddenly noticed in the light of that delicious sun that there was an odd-colored datachip stuck to the back of another.  Looking closely, she discovered that there was a purposeful seal between the two chips, so that one could be mined while the other went unnoticed--an old Romulan trick.  _Had Annok done that?_ she wondered, turning the chips closely before her narrowed eyes.

  With the thin edge of her fingernail, she carefully separated the two and slipped the second chip into the adapter, which in turn she popped into her PADD.  When the contents appeared, Dacey glanced at the Romulan header and suddenly felt her gut shrink.  _Indeed, he must have,_ she answered herself.  Her mouth dropped open as she mentally translated the columns.

  "What is it?" asked Cal.

  "Ruko'vro tolvavosh ul nohk..."

  "Sivvo ad nokkoburr," Chaldra jumped in.

  "Chaldra, siaulg vos."

  "Jul Eba," the child dutifully responded and looked at her grandmother.  "Commu nohk au nikkoburr vahur!" she announced.  "Mechnat orvsah au…"

  "Look what you've got her on now!" Mahdi laughed as the child carried on.  "What's she talking about?"

  Dacey waved a hand, reading the PADD again with increasing scrutiny.  "Nihkarr au vak nohkarg--"

  "Getchye back to Alba, Dacey Ann," teased Cal, peering over at the characters at Dacey's fingers.  He often said the Romulans had a handsome handwriting for a bunch of broken glass.  "What've you got there?"

  "Ruko'vro tolv...  Someone's personal log," Dacey breathed, madly curious and horrified at the same time.  Her whole body had already gone numb, and now she was working on believing what she was seeing.  "It's..."  Pausing, she felt her shallow breaths in her heavy chest.  "This was someone I...someone with whom I'd been acquainted."  She turned a quick glance at her parents and added, "I should till through this at my leisure."

  "Chaldra's well enough with us," Mahdi said easily.  "Go read."

  Pushing herself to her knees and pocketing the PADD, Dacey reached out to caress her toddler's head then did just that.

  Several hours later, Dacey sat on the side of her bed, still as a stone. 

  Done.

  In one hand, she held her Star Medal of Regard; in her other, she still clasped the personal journal of General Tokarel. 

  "Dacey?"

  She looked at Dennis, who stood within the door.  Shed already of his uniform tunic, he set down his satchel as his eyes searched her.

  "Is Chaldra all right?" he asked.

  "Chaldra's playing with Margaret and Chloe," Dacey answered softly.  "Ma's promised to get her for me.  Did you take a little supper back west?"

  "Just a grab at our midday."

  "Are you hungry, Dennis?"

  His gaze did not waver.  "Not quite yet."

  She patted the place beside her.  "I'd like to talk with you."

  Moving across the room, Dennis took the seat his wife had implied, sliding up onto the mattress and resting a heel on the side beam.  He blinked and reconsidered her when she at last set down the PADD and the star-shaped brooch and took his hand in both of hers.  "Is it very terrible, love?"

  "No, no.  --Not in the grand scheme, no."  She caressed his fingers. How she felt his warmth just then!  She'd not initiated such contacts since before the last time she had left on the Enterprise.  How well he had anchored her ever since, even when full sectors away.  He always had.

  "They tried me out on the farm, there, on Romulus," she started, soft even to her ears.  "But I was a hopeless fool at it no matter what they assigned me, and I was a danger to them, to the block--the crew.  They all said so.  Thankfully, the farm steward--Badock was his name...  Badock was asked to keep watch on us.  He and his assistant knew I spoke some Romulan and so they gave me what I needed to become fluent, and he assigned me to work with the others of my block.  That much I got through, much as I'd hated the duty.  But the farm assignments...  They were a failure from day one, and certain, he thought me a pure fool for not being able to work like a healthy adult should. 

  "After a number of blunders, he at last took pity on me and assigned me to the crussu roosts."  She drew a deep breath.  "I know you all laugh at me for my aversions now, but truly, Dennis, it drove me mad, the shrieks and the pecking.  I could see those evil faces screaming at me in my sleep, because it got..."  Dacey shoved down a shudder.  "...worse."  Two decades later, the memory of her experience was still vivid.  But she decided to get into that bit later.  She didn't want to cry.  Not yet.

  "Badock was a fair sight clever as any self-respecting Romulan," she went on, "and a good man with a great heart, too, who also did what Havaln asked without questioning.  After a season in the roosts, he knew I couldn't stay there.  He said for my knowing Romulan so well, I could be applied to duty elsewhere--in the main house, as a servant.  It was there I was retrained in proper fashion, and there I served Havaln, and I did so for the rest of my time on Romulus, every day, every night, at her every need and want and the general's command.  There, I earned great honors; I became a respected servant and a teacher; there, I became...  I became the woman you've known all this time."

  Dennis's gaze turned to a stare--and well it should, too, she knew.  He'd been too good to demand her details after all those years.

  Dacey caressed his warm hand with a thumb and continued more softly, "Havaln means 'consort,' you should know, and my havaln's name before she came to Romulus had been Natasha Yar.  Aye, she was human.  She was on our ship to help us fight at Narendra, and..."  She squeezed his fingers in her pause.  "She was from a ship in the future, a dire future created when our ship disappeared from this reality during the battle.  --Yes, disappeared into a rift that opened thanks to our weapons fire."  Dacey watched that sink into his technically oriented mind then added, "And Starfleet doesn't know anything about that, Dennis.  We told them nothing about the rift, or about her.  I and the others--Sandra, Carson and Mika, Yang, certainly, and I'm assuming the others, too--we've all kept this to ourselves all these years to preserve the reality we all came back to restore."

  "Then it shan't go farther than these walls," he assured her.

  "I know.  I do know that.  I trust you more than I have trusted anything...though I've hardly shown it, have I?"

  He smiled sadly, nodding, but then he furrowed his brow.  "But you know...  I know that name, Yar."  Dennis gave the thought a moment longer to process then asked, "Have I met her, do you know?"

  "The ensign who helped us at my office last year.  Remember?  When I cracked my nose?"

  Dennis almost laughed at the memory, but then realized, "Her--as she is here!"

  "Was, you mean.  She's dead now, as Havaln knew would happen.  She was meant to be dead--a good part of why she came back with us, to die well--and...  Now she is dead, twice over."

  Dennis sighed, shaking his head.  "Ah, Dacey, little wonder you flew dafty on me, there.  And you never spoke a word!"

  "I couldn't bring myself to speak of it," Dacey sadly responded, "and not just for risking this reality, but...for that you never knew Havaln, who became everything to me.  She gave herself entirely for our sakes; we may well have been slaughtered as neatly as Chaldra's parents had she not.  She gave all of herself to her duty...and I gave all of myself in _my_ duty...." 

  Dacey paused, reclaiming her control, for it welled up so swiftly in her now, she knew she would lose coherence without some self-collection.  At last, she went on, "I was a junior officer and a fair decent person, I'd thought, but I never really knew duty until I served Havaln.  The Great Star I look to?  I long asked for strength and focus so to serve _her_ , to do _her_ and her sacrifice honor...just as Ivador taught me to...and I wanted to.  I was trained to want nothing but to serve and to honor.  --And it wasn't a terrible thing, love, but simply their standard of training.  And so I became a model nih'orr...  Indeed, I was, and so much so that when I came home, to you and Ma and Dad, I had nothing but that duty I'd been stripped of, robbed from me, gone forever...and my heart, my hands...all was empty.  I was empty."

  Wiping at her eyes, puffing a breath to shore up her nerve, Dacey reclaimed her husband's astonished gaze--her husband, who had given all he could, too, to keep trying, with pure faith in _them_.  How small and weak she felt, how unworthy of his constancy, though she did manage to retain just enough of her native confidence to know it still could be righted a little, if but just a little.  "Are you terribly fit for supper now, Dennis?"

  He shook his head.  "You're going to tell me what happened to you out there?"

  "I feel I must...and I want to."

  He sighed with relief.  Turning his hand over to embrace hers, he said, "I want to hear it, everything you want to say, Dacey."  Considering her, then, he asked, "Why now, all the sudden?"  He glanced at the PADD and the brooch, still safely at rest below her elbow.  "What's happened?"

  Dacey blinked, and she grew very still again, as if indeed she had taken her place just outside the door as they moved inside it together, her hand upon his wrist, leaving the young nih'orr waiting.  Loyally waiting, always.

  "He forgot nothing."  
 

  Six years later, Dacey and Dennis enjoyed a lovely afternoon on the back patio together, working on their separate projects and awaiting Chaldra's return from school.  Their marriage had suffered great improvement since the end of Dacey's silence, so much so that she now suffered for not having the mind to let go of her incubus earlier.

  There would always be stresses and shadows from her past:  She would always be haunted by questions and feel a need for silence and self-protection.  Without needing to wonder why, she always thought herself a nih'orr severed from her service contract.  Seemingly insignificant things still frightened her.  But she at last had a confidant in her husband and a source of complete duty in her daughter, in addition to a big, loving family and two successful careers.  All that realized, she at last felt, for the most part, at peace.

  So when Chaldra came over the hill and escorted a family of five into her family's courtyard, and when she saw Richard Castillo's face among them, she took it with some certain curiosity and a fair dose of caution.  Still, she knew that she could welcome that part of her past into her present, and go where he suggested she might want to, and see about the questions, perhaps dare for an answer. 

  Now she could bear the end of that past.  She was ready.

* * *

   
  Dr. Kerr caressed the portrait frame, staring with some longing but contentment, too, at the image of her family.  Then she set it down and ghosted a smile the bartender's way.  "I learned how to move again, but I never stopped waiting.  Nor will I, I think.  It's a part of me.  It's what I am."

  Guinan topped off both of their glasses and set down the bottle.  "Waiting isn't too bad, though it's easier when you know what you're waiting _for_."

  Her fingers brushed the sides of the glass.  It was warm to the touch.  "It's nice to think of it like that."

  "You're not alone in that wait."

  The women's eyes met.  Dark blue to rich brown, and neither wavered as the point sunk in.  "Aye, that, too," Dr. Kerr at last acknowledged, drew up her glass and drank the shot.

  
  __  
Coming Next:  Chapter Six.  Undercurrent  
© D'Alaire M., 2011  
swiftian@yahoo.com  



	6. Undercurrent

  "You have been losing sleep over this, then," she said, revising his words with her usual dose of calm and a steady gaze that he sometimes met.

  "But sometimes I feel like I _need_ to be anxious, to get all of that energy out.  It's....  I don't know how to say it better."

  "Take your time.  Where are you when this energy feels most powerful?"

  Commander Troi heard only half of what came next.

  Waking after a fitful few hours of sleep, Troi had as many hours of appointments to distract her from the resurrection that had been served to her the afternoon before.  Appointments were no real diversions, however, for in each of Ensign Viner's pauses, a former officer's words and emotions floated back into Troi's mind yet again. 

  Sunken into his chair, his hands often finding their way back to his cardigan pockets, Mr. Castillo's easy tenor rolled on, detailed even in his lack of assurance, ready despite his underlying dread.  But Troi continually felt that as much as he did not like to regurgitate certain feelings and memories, he had needed to unburden himself there, vocalize the many memories that had been assailing him on the flip side of the ship where it all had started.  It gave his conscience no relief, however.

  And despite their situation, some of his remembrance was warm.  Outside of his "block," Mr. Castillo truly had liked the farm steward, Badock.  His assistant, Emidas, and the khurr'ocs Tharol, Narin and Kivos, among several fellow tevol'ocs, were all dear to his memory, too.  Conversely, for all his regard of her, Tasha came and went through his memories with unremitting bittersweet, pain and sometimes a resentment that stood as strong as his adoration.  More discontent lurked within what he had not finished, Troi suspected, though that rancor had no power, only resilience.

  It all served only to augment Troi's concern and curiosity, which had spun within her sensitive mind while she slept.  The evening before had been peppered with memories of the Tasha she knew, their brief friendship.  Happily diverted by Kells' birthday party for a while, the memories of Tasha returned soon after silence enveloped her once again, bringing forth the prevailing question, the most obvious question:  What had happened to Castillo's Tasha?  Had she truly lost herself to the life she had agreed to, or had she been practicing an elaborate façade?

  Troi had been a young girl on Betazed when these events took place, attending functions with her parents and staring dreamily at the alien peoples there.  She remembered her mother giggling as she eased her young daughter aside.  _"How foolish they are!"_ she had remarked between them.

  _"I don't think so.  I think they are very interesting."_

  _"Perhaps they look so, but you are too young to sense their falseness.  How hard they try to be what they know they're not!"_

  Troi had stared hard at those people after her mother's meaning became clear.  She had not wanted to think ill of the well-dressed strangers--she rather had thought the opposite.  But now she had to wonder what falsehood her mother had detected, and in whom.

  _"Many will try to deceive you, little one,"_ her mother had added, her voice flittering through young Troi's mind like a funny song, but with a point, _"but never respond to them--unless you have to of course, but you may never need to.  Better if you didn't.  Stand back and simply know."_

  Against her mother's every suggestion desire, Troi had come to express what she felt in others for a living, and quite adeptly for a hybrid.  Tasha was one of the few about whom she had remained closely reserved.  Tasha was also one of the few humans who could remain much a mystery after so many conversations--and even more of one after hearing about her alter ego.

  "And every time I think about getting back to it, it starts again."

  "What do you think triggers it?"

  "I don't know...  Maybe because it reminds me of...  Actually, yeah, it's a lot like how things were at Starbase 234."

  "Can you tell me about that?"

  On the surface, it seemed unlike Tasha to take such pains to live a lie, but Troi knew from the start that the woman they had known had likewise hidden great depths from everyone.  They all discovered later that the secrecy included a sister who was apparently as forthcoming.  After the crew's experience with the deceitful Ishara Yar, everyone knew but no one desired to openly admit that Lieutenant Yar had falsified her records. 

  Looking into it herself, Troi had learned that the records on the long autonomous colony of Turkana had been purposefully destroyed upon the fall of the capital city, Orvo, which had housed the databases that contained those records.  While the Federation possessed the records of most of the citizens, they no longer were updated, and no longer had a match on Turkana.  The cadres assumed control of the populace entirely, and the cadre leaders of the time soon claimed that the surviving population had chosen one of the several existing clans to fight for.  No suggestion of a host of people fighting to survive outside of those groups existed in the Federation records.  Only through Tasha's slim testimony were they made aware of any exceptions.  Meanwhile, nothing and nobody were allowed passage off the razed world, and the Federation itself heard no more from any of the Turkanan factions the year Tasha escaped it.

  In the official record that had been constructed after leaving her homeworld, Tasha had purposefully entered "no siblings," and marked the same in her Starfleet Academy application.  Troi wondered why she had done that, why it should matter so much to deny having any surviving family that she would risk her place at the Academy.

  _Guarded, hurt..._ Those first impressions continued to be her only answer.

  _"They took whatever they wanted--our lives, our people, young and old.  They didn't care if you lived or died as long as they could control you."_

  The bitterness that had accompanied her statements was palpable, so strong, the events that had inspired may well have happened days ago, not years.

  Ishara had joined the Coalition and reportedly had cursed her sister's weakness.  Was that what it took to make Tasha turn her back on her last surviving family member?

  What else was missing from her record?  What else could have been falsified?  What else had she concealed?

  Apparently, it had not been beyond the alternate Yar to live with great secrets, too, holding true to her story and deceiving everyone around her in order to fulfill her goals.  She had played the same game on Romulus to an important degree, successfully concealing her name and reason for being on the Enterprise C.  She must have needed to maintain great caution throughout her time there while seeming to be at ease and well adjusted.  Much as Tasha had not minded danger and had been at times too fearless, it did not make practical sense to invite that much risk when others' lives were at stake, particularly among a race known for its ability to pick apart deception, even while it deceived.  It was also unlikely she would have pretended affection, which brought Troi's thoughts back to Castillo's descriptions of her increasing detachment from the crew and, apparently, herself.

  _"Straight behavior modification,"_ Dr. Kerr had said, _"and nothing out of the ordinary for a tevol'oc being trained to particular specifications."_ \--And this made sense.  In most things, Romulans planned their outcomes with great care, which leant to a good deal of complexity and supported their covert methods.  Conversely, it made failures remarkably messy.

  So, the general had formed an idea of what he needed when he took on his consort and trained her accordingly.  The effect of it could be seen as early as a few months into her time there, according to Castillo, whose recollection had gone about three Federation years into their incarceration.  There were four more years to come. 

  What had changed in that time...if anything?

  "Thank you Counselor Troi," said Ensign Viner on his way out.

  "I hope it was productive," she responded, hardly feeing she deserved his thanks.  Though she knew that half the battle with patients was encouraging them voice their frustrations to an audience, she knew she had not been at her most receptive, too.  On that thought, she added, "I would like to meet with you again next week."

  "Same time?"

  Troi checked her schedule and nodded.  "Yes, that would be fine.  Thank you, Neal."

  He was gone a moment later.  She stared at the door for a few moments before turning away from it.

  "Computer, where is Richard Castillo?"

  "*Richard Castillo is in stellar cartography,*" came the computer's answer.

  Returning to her chair to input some notes and an appointment reminder, Troi nodded to herself.  Mr. Castillo would likely be touring the department with the other scientists, busying himself with his group.  He was probably wondering if Tasha had been there, or if the staff there remembered her, and was himself continuing to remember when he had been, and all that had been said and done.

  "*Reminder,*" came the computer's voice again.  "*Midday staff briefing in five minutes.*"

  Pressing her hands upon the arms of her chair, Troi left her office and reported to deck one for the update from engineering and security. 

  Staff briefings were a twice-daily protocol preceding and capping their usually busy shift, a summary of the everyday and its occasional misfits.  Now the meetings suffered the addition of Maquis and Cardassian updates, which likewise took precedence, to have the worst over with (as Data once put it, treading lightly over the colloquialism as he often did) and its ramifications discussed while they were still fresh.  Coming to Esos would be a welcome change of pace for them all, but particularly those on the crew who had an unfortunate connection to that region of space, and others who simply were concerned about the developments there.  It had been a violent half-year in all the Federation with every expectation of events worsening.  Certainly, Troi had felt the increase in the Enterprise's residents' anxiety.  Their own losses of late had likewise left a lasting bitterness and air of suspicion.

  Luckily, diversion would not be difficult to find at the old, established colony of Esos III.  Originally a Vulcan settlement of geologists and biologists, the colony had grown to become home to several Federation races, and home to the largest annual gathering of scientists of all concentrations on that side of the Federation.  Aside from the conference, the Esosian capitol of Vahaal had a number of museums and like attractions, and Troi had also been told of its magnificent seaside and coral reefs, which she looked forward to visiting.

  That was still four days away, and there were still at least twelve meetings to come before then. 

  Sitting in the first of them, Troi listened and watched, and on occasion, she glanced at the seat that Lieutenant Yar had usually taken.  Though she could be outspoken at times, the security chief usually said little at meetings outside of her reports.  She usually had remained very still, listening intently, watching every detail, always on alert for the next bit of information of use to her.  She had served at a time when they all still called each other by their formal titles, when they were still coming to know each other and relied on the stricter end of regulation to smooth their relative awkwardness.  Their first security chief was gone before they had grown past that, though she had endeared herself to them all, and always would be called, simply, "Tasha." 

  It felt so long ago now.  So much had happened since those infant days.

  Likewise, Tasha's presence had long not been there.  Still, Troi felt her--though _not_ the one she had known.  The woman who had lived a decade longer was now settled in the seat, well-postured and ostensibly steady:  That image Castillo showed her, the beautiful woman with a gaze that broke through the medium.

  Her facade filled Troi's mind.  Sad?  Angry?  Indignant?  Lost?  Acquiescing?  The look was entirely Tasha's, and then it wasn't.  The look was...

  "We arrive at Esos III in three days," Captain Picard said in conclusion to his summary account of a conversation with Administrator Toerth.  "If you plan to attend any of the conferences, I suggest you reserve your place.  There are a number of seminars open to the public, including a forum on subspace manipulation."

  "I saw that," LaForge said, brightening from the business of the day.  "The projects look really interesting."

  "You are going to attend?"

  "I plan to."

  "I have been told it's drawn even Dr. Khandar from Sicchi-Four.  It has been filling quickly."

  "Maybe I should send for my place ahead of time."

  _Time..._

  "Thanks for the head's up, Captain."

  "You should thank Data for looking into the schedules.  I had not thought to."

  Troi's eyes closed for a moment.  The look in the portrait had aged.  The woman in the image had been wizened by a life completely outside her previous experience, made more finely educated and aware.  The woman in the image had understood far more than she cared to reveal, like Tasha had...and took it to her death.

  _"It was the last time I saw Tasha,"_ Mr. Castillo had said after his description of the battle at Narendra, the bone-scraping battle to the death that left a mere ten survivors aboard a starship that had once been fully staffed.

  But the woman in the image knew who she was.

  If that was correct, who precisely was she?

  The meeting adjourned and Troi pressed her hands to the table to stand.  Wordlessly, she watched the others file out before turning to come around the table, too.  At the head, Captain Picard remained, tapping his way through authorization reports in preparation for the refit engineering would now commit to when they arrived at Esos III.

  She took in his patrician profile above a frame that remained straight even while bent over a report.  As if for the first time, she knew what great presence he possessed, and in him rested his great curiosity, studiousness and, more privately, deep caring.  Troi's captain was the same captain she had known for seven years. 

  _What would a career at war have made of him?_ she wondered, remembering what Castillo had said of the reality he had witnessed.  _How would his sensibility have fared when denied his calling?_ And she was glad all over again that the reality Castillo had spoken of was no more, to think about what a long and losing battle might have done to them all.

  Done to them...

  Troi slowly exhaled, touching the arm of her chair.  Reality had been changed by the Enterprise C's entry into the future, Castillo had said.  It apparently was not another timeline or a unique reality, but _their_ reality, altered.  The Natasha Yar that Castillo and the others knew was the same one Troi and her crew had known, only modified by the different environment and spared a premature death for circumstance alone.  They were not separate incarnations in parallel universes, but single, shifted persons.

  They all had shifted.

  _"I don't remember you from the ship I'd visited,"_ Mr. Castillo had said.  _"But they lived on a pretty thin chain...."_

  With ships made for such utilitarian purpose as he had described, Troi imagined that only essential personnel inhabited the starships, while psychologists would have been kept on bases or at homeworld facilities.  _Where would I have been stationed?_ Troi wondered.  Would she have been led down the same paths and joined Starfleet, or would she, by interest or necessity, have remained at home, where she would have been married to Wyatt per the arrangement, careered conventionally and kept safe at home?  What a different life _that_ would have been!

  But that wasn't the case, Troi reminded herself, relaxing.  That reality was not an option, and there was no difference to consider.  Though, she felt halfway stranded there, knowing she could muse on such things and on the one, doomed remnant of that existence.  While well accustomed to retaining information as a part of her practice, _that_ information would be a burden, indeed.  Mr. Castillo knew it would be.  Troi appreciated his and Dr. Kerr's self-control on the bridge, now, when their emotional instability had suggested the opposite. 

  As Troi moved to pass by Captain Picard, he glanced up at her.  "Counselor."

  "Good afternoon Captain," she answered, pausing.  His mind was still on the reports, but it now was turning toward a pointed curiosity.

  "I had meant to ask you yesterday evening about our guests."

  "Yes, Captain."

  "You have spoken to them?" Captain Picard ventured.

  "I spoke to them at length yesterday," Troi confirmed, "and I see no cause for alarm."

  "You had been concerned by Dr. Kerr in particular."

  "I had been."  She paused, thinking for a moment how to proceed.  "They have unique issues relating to their experiences on their former starship.  But the trouble is theirs, and deeply personal, so I am not at liberty to speak in detail about it at this time.  I can say that there should be no negative impact on the ship or crew."

  "Do you plan to speak with them again?"

  "I am going to try to speak with them again, yes.  I think it would be good for them to speak more about their difficulties, and I'd like to see if I can help in some way before they disembark."

  Picard nodded.  "Very well.  Thank you, Counselor."

  Troi stared at him a moment longer, feeling ease return to him despite some lingering curiosity.  Trusting his officer, his thoughts returned to the PADD in his hand.

  _But should he be informed?_ she mused in afterthought.  _Certainly, he would want to know._ It had been highly disturbing to him to learn what little Guinan could relate about that shifted reality, particularly learning that he had sent Tasha back with the Enterprise C with such consequences as had been relayed by Commander Sela.  Troi had spoken with him in private about that intelligence, suggesting they should not try too hard to consider the what and why of that past, for it had never been theirs to control, and that they likely never would understand all that had happened.  Moreover, focusing on it would weaken them against an opponent who plainly had no corresponding sympathies. 

  But now Troi knew that Tasha had pressed for her "transfer," as she had chosen what came after, and she had not raised the young Romulan commander, who had taunted them with her face, half truths and implied blame where none should have been found.  That indeed could be counted as worthy to report to her commanding officer.  And yet, she had given her word.

  "Is there something else?" Picard asked, looking up.

  Troi shook her head.  "No, Captain," she said quietly and turned to leave.

  Worse was the relief she felt when she was free of the briefing room, free of her captain's gaze.  _Yes, he would want to know the truth,_ she knew with some regret.  _Like the rest of us, he would want to lay to rest all of the questions stemming from Commander Sela's information--if not about Commander Sela herself._

  Not that _her_ curiosity had been satiated, or that she was satisfied with much at all just then.

  Consequentially, her report on the two was proving difficult to write.  As she did with other sensitive situations, she had carefully expressed all correct information, relating enough that she would not be cornered into questions while leaving out the fundamental intelligence that had been entrusted to her.  Every time she looked it over, however, she felt her pessimism grow.  She did not once consider reneging her oath of confidentiality, but she felt a pall of dishonesty, knowing what she did and being unable to share it with people who likely would have greatly desired the truth.

  Troi understood now that the silence had affected the guests, those survivors of such a life-altering digression from their chosen lives.  Eight years of separation from their culture and careers in a situation that left them unable to make decisions for themselves had changed them, and though indeed they both had become successful in their lives, their silence had continued to isolate them.  In normal recovery situations, expressing and actively dealing with the experience would help the prisoner heal.  Rather, the guests' predicament had sealed their unique anxieties and made them protective of their memories, both the good and the bad, and Dr. Kerr more so than Mr. Castillo, whose general tendency to yield made him a far less intense subject.

  _"We laughed at the idea at first, I admit.  There was no way Dacey of all people could be made to sit on her knees like a statue for an hour without opening her mouth or finding something else to do...  But she seemed to get the hang of it, thanks to the same machine that took care of Tasha."_

  When Troi had looked at Dr. Kerr upon that statement, the woman did not even bother a glance up from her PADD as she continued to tack down any reaction. Though, Troi did sense a tired annoyance.

  _"We didn't see any of them again for nearly a drosak--that's a half-season, about twenty-eight days.  They might as well have never existed--until it was apparently decided that they would be seen again...."_

  Rounding the corridor, Troi slowed just enough to allow the doors to Ten-Forward to open.  There, she briefly wondered if she rather wanted to take lunch in her quarters.  She was a little tired from the lack of sleep, and she wanted to find Mr. Castillo later on in the afternoon, when he was finished in stellar cartography.  But then, she was already at the lounge, and she was hungry, so she decided to stay.  Lunch would not take long, and then she could rest.

  She crossed the room for a table by the viewport, but soon found herself staring out at the shifting black, red shift to blue shift, seemingly stationary points in the far distance.

  Tasha was twenty-seven when she died.  What would another couple of years on the Enterprise have made of her?  Obviously, she had remained an excellent officer, bound by her strong character, talent at repression and impressive tolerance to stress.  But there had been more to Tasha than that--and likely a good deal more to test her limits in that alternate reality.  She had been about thirty-seven when she died on Romulus, ten years older than her alter ego.

  To think of Tasha escaping the same Turkana only to become entangled in another war zone disturbed Troi for all the reasons it should have.  Having learned about the constant stress of battle of that brutal homeworld, Troi could guess the effects of a denial of peace.  Much as the warrior would always be a part of her, long had Tasha looked for the life that "other people" lived, one of security, comfort and happiness, the life she had known only too briefly.  In that case, Castillo's Tasha would have had no chance to expand past the familiar role she had secured for herself in her career, the role of survivor and protector.  Consequently, her long-term outlook on life would have been greatly altered; her growth would be limited.

  For while Tasha indeed had overcome social and professional obstacles that might have held her back, she had missed some essential psychological and emotional steps while achieving maturity, having had that development retarded since the critical human age of five.  Her thinking was remarkably concrete for a woman of her skill and responsibility, and her ethics were uncomplicated at the risk of rigidity.  Helping Tasha work though those deficits and deal with the issues that could threaten her future had been a long-range plan in the counselor's mind.  Tasha had only been starting to grasp emotional maturity when she knew her. 

  From what Troi could tell from Castillo's early descriptions of her, the Tasha he knew hid her defects just as well. 

  To fight one war after another, one horror following the ones she lived as a child, was concerning.  But then to have become a valuable, well-tended consort when the idea of pleasure in sex had been amusing and exotic rather than something Tasha had expected and encouraged--or even thought natural--was grimly compelling for Troi to think about.  Tasha had approached intimacy and sex as would an adolescent--not a terribly unusual state in humans, in fact, but considering Tasha's background, the staying power of her immaturity had weight.  She had mentioned an encounter or two, but the admissions had been coupled with innocence, embarrassment and tinges of shame. 

  Driven to remain on the track she had chosen, she had focused her life in other ways.  She could not even remember Tasha being attracted to any of the men on the crew, though she'd had many friends among them.  Her tryst with Data during that unfortunate mission soon after the Enterprise's maiden voyage had been a foggy memory, but Tasha recalled it nonetheless with great mortification, particularly because Tasha had thought of Data as a comrade and friend.  To Tasha's great relief, Data had followed her cue without exception.  Returning to their duties without any further mention and no changes between them, she had put the episode firmly behind her.

  How different was the woman Castillo remembered to Troi the evening before!  Indeed, she had changed, relinquishing her rank and training, bearing a child and giving it up to the general's wife and, most of all, taking on the role she had been offered to every expectation.

  _"She carried herself like royalty most of the time by then.  They all made room for her when she came near, and she hardly paid them any attention.  All of it was for the general.  He'd taken us prisoner, but he'd captured her soul."_

  The memory of the garden remained most striking to Troi, and not only for it being her last impression of that history: Tasha's complete surrender and even comfort in her role and duty truly was shocking, when her mere femininity had often been awkward to the Tasha Troi knew.  What a circumstance to come into one's sexual maturity!

  There, Troi paused, reminding herself that what she had learned from Mr. Castillo was solely from his perspective, an unseated Starfleet officer looking from afar at an object of desire.  The consort could have been performing her duty, as Dr. Kerr had admonished them, and it was possible to see Tasha taking that stance.  Still, Troi knew there was more.  There had to be more.

  What had happened to her?  Tough and noble but emotionally vulnerable:  How much had that new world affected her?

  "Can I get you something?"

  Troi glanced over at Guinan, who had wandered over several seconds before choosing to speak.  "Yes, thank you, Guinan," she responded, thinking for a moment about her choices.  "Do you remember what salad I had here a few days ago?  It was a new dish."

  "Igrollo bean salad with rice strings," Guinan answered with a slow nod.  "Like another one?"

  "I would, thank you.  It was wonderful."

  "I'm glad I could remember," she replied, but did not move away.

  Troi drew a breath and briefly held it, an automatic reaction to sensing particular intent.  Guinan had a very complex mind, not at all easy to read, but she was not difficult to mistake when she was particularly attuned to the person she had approached.  She had remained for a reason.  "Guinan," she asked quietly, "do you remember Tasha?"

  "I've been told a lot about her."

  "But do you remember _her_?"

  The other woman paused first, but then she raised her chin, likewise turning her gaze out to the streams of stars.  Each point of light flashed in her eyes as it zipped by then disappeared.  "I remember things that were around her, but not much else.  Only...a presence."

  "I see."

  "She was a memorable person," Guinan noted.  "I'm surprised by how much people have remained protective of her memory."

  "They have," Troi acknowledged, adding, "though in truth, no one knew her very well."

  "I'm sure there's at least one person who does."

  Troi turned to Guinan again.  The woman's gaze did not avert for several seconds.  Then, slowly, she blinked and moved back.

  "Igrollo bean salad," she said quietly then left.

  Troi returned to the view.

  Was it a grand facade, or was Tasha truly lost?  Again, there were only guesses.  She knew what Mr. Castillo's assumption was--an assumption that was rebuked by his companion, who had been Tasha's servant.

  The stars streaked by and the ship made an adjustment, slowing to turn slightly; then it resumed speed.  Most people unaccustomed to starship travel did not notice those tiny shifts, but Troi over the years had become observant of them and the slight, unconscious disturbance in the general equilibrium of those aboard the ship.

  _Adjustment..._

  Mr. Castillo had acclimated as a farm slave, bitter but stoic with his mind always on why he still breathed.  The woman known only as Dacey to her Romulan captors had been reeducated to fit into household service.

  Though Romulans were hardly known for repression as Vulcans were, Troi now could see why Romulan superiors designed how they wanted staff and slaves to behave, particularly those in sensitive positions such as consort--and a consort's servant.  The effect had stood the test of time.  Contrary to Castillo's descriptions of the excitable young Ensign Kerr, and for all her defensiveness and pride, Dr. Kerr had reigned in her anger and frustration throughout his recollection, unmoving until the end, when Mr. Castillo's view of events could be heard no more and her control slipped.  Even then, she spoke, quiet and quick as she did everywhere else, and only for her fierce loyalty and unending duty to "Havaln," to do justice to her memory, to a woman she still mourned.

  Still mourned...

  Mourned "Havaln," not Tasha Yar.

  _"How long did she serve her?"_ Troi had asked Mr. Castillo after Dr. Kerr had left the room.

  _"Seven years, from a couple of weeks after the baby was born to the end.  She did everything for her: got her food, her clothes, bathed her--everything....  If Tasha was awake, Dacey was usually no more than five meters away."_

  The woman she had served had been killed.  Where had Dr. Kerr been when that happened?  How had Mr. Castillo and the others escaped?  How had that brought about Tasha's death?  Or had it?

  A server came with a tray and Troi finally gave up the window to look down at the delicious salad she had enjoyed the other day, a tall glass of water and, on the side, a square of chocolate.  She smiled and glanced at the bar, where Guinan stood, offering her a nod.  Troi nodded her thanks back.  Sitting at last, she picked up her utensils and sliced a few of the beans in half.

  _"From day one, Havaln was given choices, and she made them.  She'd die another death to think she were considered a victim."_

  Troi's back straightened, and her gaze drifted out once again, now aimless in its direction.  She had taken Dr. Kerr's statements as dismissive, for the professor had wanted them to be.  But there was, Troi now could see, far more to it than that, just like there was far more to Tasha.

  _...die another death..._

  Commander Sela had obviously given them just enough information to disturb and entice, but she hadn't said anything about what her mother had been like or how she had lived.  Now Troi understood that Sela had never known the woman called Tasia; her sources had been outside information, adeptly manipulated by her superiors.  There had been no way for Captain Picard to investigate the truth.  None of them would have imagined that the facts they had needed could be found with a self-contained professor who moonlighted as a consultant for Starfleet Command, and whose department had been as forthcoming with details.

  The sinking feeling returned.  All of the Enterprise's encounters with the young commander made sense now, and Troi had only scratched the surface.

  She tapped her communicator.  "Computer," she commanded, "alert me when Dr. Kerr and Mr. Castillo are both returned to their assigned quarters."

  "*Alert activated.*"

  The survivors of the Enterprise C had been through a terrible trauma.  Their return and recovery was nothing short of impressive--miraculous, even, though it had certainly taken its toll, if their two representatives there were any indication.  They had not released that past, and probably never would, holding it safe and tight within them.  That much was not unlike the woman who had saved them to that fate.

  But more importantly to Troi just then was that, unlike Commander Sela or even Mr. Castillo, who could say something about Natasha Yar, Dr. Kerr knew _the consort_ , and _that_ was all that was left for her to understand.  
   
 

* * *

   
  She found them about an hour after they had returned to the private lounge that adjoined their rooms.  When she pressed the door beacon, it opened several seconds later.  She walked in.

  Troi immediately saw Mr. Castillo wave her in then turn around to blow a kiss to his wife and children.  Wearing only a short-sleeved shirt, Troi could see that he had remained in excellent physical condition with an impressive posture, strong hands and tan skin, very different from the lumpy look his usual cardigan suggested. 

  "Bye, Daddy!" said the littlest one in the viewscreen with typically childish volume before his communication was ended.  He sighed, contented but missing them. 

  Glancing over, Troi saw Dr. Kerr reclined on the sofa reading a PADD.  She wore a long, black tunic and leggings; her bare feet were kicked up on the armrest.  They and her legs were fair nearly to porcelain; like her fingers, her toes were meticulously tended and sported nails buffed to a high shine.  Her hair was pulled tightly back into a knot.  Without her shawl and wool dress, she too looked half her ostensible size.

  "I hope you don't mind my coming again," Troi said.

  Dr. Kerr looked on the verge of bored when she glanced back.  "Back for more.  Guess it was too much to hope you'd be distracted by your many duties." 

  Troi's lips turned up, knowing the other woman was anything _but_ bored.  Annoyed, not surprised and already anxious--but Troi set it all aside for the moment to ease into her desired topic.  "You can imagine why I would be curious, from what I've heard already."

  "It goes with your territory, too, Commander, certainly.  It's nothing to do with now, though, but a long dead past of someone who looks like someone you ceased to know seven years ago."

  "Yes, and someone whose life ended too soon twice over," Troi countered, slightly annoyed, as well, by the woman's brushing her off, "too suddenly, and her grave has been disturbed more than once.  As for the past, I think it's quite the opposite.  This has never ended--for either of you."

  "It may well end right now," was Dr. Kerr's chilly reply.  "I've warned you before:  Don't play the brain tweezer with me.  I've not once had patience for your lot."

  "Forgive me."  Troi's heavy gaze did not waver.  "But could you please finish what we began?  As I promised yesterday, I can assure your privacy and utter confidentiality.  I do give you my word, and intend to keep it." 

  "You'd be here all the rest of day and some.  Sure you've got better things to do."

  Troi touched her comm badge.  "Computer, lock all communications to emergency status only," she commanded.  A bleep and confirmation followed.  "I won't now."

  "Devil take it," Dr. Kerr muttered and peered over at her traveling companion.  "Hadn't I said we should wait until next month?"

  Mr. Castillo moved away from the desk.  "Is that what you said?"

  "I didn't want to get on _this_ bloody ship, that's for certain!  I told you it'd all come to trouble."

  "Well, it's done, Dacey," he replied, sinking into the chair he had claimed the night before.  "Not much I can do about it now, if I could do anything about it before."

  "Aye right, you've not had a thing to do with the unfolding of events here."

  "Goddamnit, Dacey, it's _done_.  How many ways do I need to tell you to deal with it?"

  Dr. Kerr cursed and pushed herself to stand.  "Fine, I'll get the tea."

  He jerked his head with surprise at her sudden turn.  When he was able to voice a response, she was already halfway across the room.  "Sure?"

  She rolled her eyes.  "I hardly think I could fuck up a pot of dirty water before hearing you blether on another three-oh hours."

  Troi blinked and looked at Mr. Castillo, who shook his head again, predictably letting it go.  Peering back, she watched the professor punch holes in the replicator panel with her middle finger.  "Actually, Dr. Kerr, I'd wanted to hear more from you."

  "And whate'er'd that be about, I cannae ken," came her exaggerated response, light above a flash of frustration.

  Troi said nothing, waiting for Dr. Kerr to finish the tea and bring tray to the table.  Falling to her knees at the end of the coffee table, she poured each cup three quarters full and handed them off, first to Castillo, then to Troi.  She set a tray of tubular crackers in the center, and another plate of soft pods next to it.  Watching them take their cups, she finally took her own.

  Troi purposefully relaxed, sipping the warm, pungent liquid.  A Romulan blend? she briefly wondered as its spiciness penetrated her tongue and throat.  She did not touch the other items, which she could smell from her seat.  Likewise, she refrained from starting the topic, giving the two their time to calm down.  Mr. Castillo did so easily:  He had already made his point and so was finished with the issue.  His long, strong hands gently circled the generous cup.  Rather than sipping, drank deeply and enjoyed each mouthful, taking his time between them.  Halfway through, he reached out for a cracker, speared a pod and ate both.  The heavy flavor seemed to satisfy him greatly.

  Conversely, Dr. Kerr only held her cup as her anxiety worked itself through an array of degrees.  Interestingly, this was set aside as a deep sense of sadness filled her--endlessly deep, nothing at all like the darkness Troi had sensed the night before.  And yet, this was a welcome sadness.  It came with her memories, sweet, beloved memories of one for whom she cared deeply.  But all of this was followed once again by frustration.  Likely, she knew she would need to speak to some degree and debated with herself over it, Troi deduced.  The fact that she was debating it interested Troi, though.  Dr. Kerr might have said "no" outright-- and in fact, Troi had fully expected her to, but she hadn't.

  After a few more rounds of indecision, Dr. Kerr's eyes closed slowly then opened again, and all of those feelings were repressed.  Troi felt a thump in her chest at the frightening efficiency of that burial.  For nearly a minute, Troi hardly felt anything in her at all.

  Then, to Troi's further surprise, Dr. Kerr drew a portion of her tea, sank back into her mixed feelings again and said, "Eventually, Castillo, I'd wanted you to know."  Her voice was a scratchy whisper.  To cure it, she drew another sip and continued, "For all you thought about it, all you worried after her and detested the general for saving us at her expense, you might benefit from the whole story.  At the time, you probably wouldn't have wanted it.  You still might not." 

  "Maybe," Castillo admitted, both his interest and annoyance piquing with the prospect of new information.  "Only one way to find that out, right?"

  "Right."  Her eyes turned down.  "Aye, it's been more than me," she muttered, "waiting for answers...waiting to bury the dead at last.  And now we've got to share the spade."  Looking at Troi, she asked, "How well did you know Natasha Yar?"

  Despite the pall of Dr. Kerr's statements, Troi's answer was pleasant.  "We knew each other just over a half year, during the first year of the Enterprise's commission.  But we spoke often."

  "Thinking about Havaln makes me smile like that, too," Dr. Kerr observed kindly.  "What do you know about Romulan culture and practice?"

  "I have researched Romulus, of course, for many reasons in my position."

  "Which in fact offers you very little perspective on its people."

  "Why is that?"

  "Spies with access to those files inspire greater levels of confidentiality for the sake of the people who bring us that information," Dr. Kerr told her.  "In short, we release what you need to know, and I'll leave it at that."

  Troi was taken a bit off guard by the woman's statement.  Respectfully, she did not question further, though it occurred to her that she was probably being made more aware of those omissions than most among her peers--and Dr. Kerr was allowing that to happen.  Had she already spoken with someone about it?

  "I also worked 'undercover,' if you will," Troi went on, "as a Romulan officer for short time, and helped to free dissidents from the Empire."

  "Right, the Khazara.  How many staff tended you?"

  _How quickly she asked that!_ Troi remarked to herself, and as she had the night before, she had to think to remember them, even if it was not terribly long ago.  "I had one woman bring essentials to my room, but I didn't meet her; some others brought laundry.  In fact, I hardly noticed them.  I was occupied elsewhere."

  "As it should be.  Officers generally are not assigned servants.  I was merely curious one might have been planted.  Either way, you couldn't know where we'd been, particularly in the light of the era we had experienced.  You've had a taste of the New Order, such as it stands.  --And you," she looked at Castillo, "own too much of your perspective."  She cast her gaze askance, turning her fingers over and over on the warm mug, circling in time with her thoughts.  "Sorry, sir, but when we were out there, you could only handle the basic information--though, you did guess well in places.  The general did see to it that Havaln was trained carefully, and with as much precision as standards granted.  Just...  Without his desiring it to be, its absorption was...reinforced."

  "Then there were invasive procedures?" Troi asked.

  "No, no.  You read too much," Dr. Kerr said.  "None of his intentions went awry until the accident." 

  Castillo coughed.  " _That's_ what you're talking about."

  Troi glanced at him.

  "When Tasha was injured and taken to the clinic," he supplied.  "They insisted on calling it an accident."

  "And you insist on calling it everything but that."  Dr. Kerr drew a sip of her tea and set it down.  "Really, the worst of it stemmed from Dradar simply being very Romulan."

  "Good thing you didn't have to serve her after all," Mr. Castillo returned.

  Any humor he tried to implant in his jibe was ignored.  "It wasn't my place to serve her."

  "How did all that come about, anyway?" he asked.  "I never did figure out how Badock could have processed you into a high profile staff position at the snap of his fingers.  He wasn't in charge of house assignments."

  "He had connections enough," Dr. Kerr replied.  "You knew as well as I that everyone there had ways of getting things under the door.  Badock was better practiced than anyone there at it, save perhaps Kimolg.  And Emidas was a far better courier than most."

  "How so?"

  She shot him a look of surprise.  "How so?  Sir, if you couldn't figure out what was right in your hand, you probably don't deserve to know."

  Mr. Castillo's grin was more goading than pleasant now as he cut a look askance at her.  "Come on, Dacey, it's been twenty years.  You said you wanted me to know the truth."

  "The truth about Havaln was what I'd referred to."

  "You can share a few house secrets along the way, can't you?"

  "And feed your tilted perspective another hearty meal?"

  "So, clear it up.  After all the trouble and all the reassignments you had in the beginning, then suddenly you were standing by Innivra after Yang's vibiiad bite like you were born to it.  You have to know, we were all a little surprised--actually, _really_ surprised by how you were acting.  It was nothing like you.  Even Yang still remembers it, despite his condition then."

  "Does he now," she said softly, not at all a question.

  "He was sure you had something going on, like you had been put up to some great intrigue, but he couldn't tell what.  As soon as he was enough himself again to think to ask you, Badock was telling me that you needed to be transferred out of the roosts to save your sanity and that Dradar was going to interview you.  And then you came in panicking about it, and I thought, here we go again."

  "I'd misunderstood what was happening."

  "Yeah, I get that much.  But what _was_ happening, Dacey?"

  Not answering immediately, she collected her tea and saucer into her hands again and gave the contents a gentle swirl.  Then she recaptured her companion's attention.  As she held his gaze, Troi jerked.  The intensity had returned, but it now had compressed, rendering her feelings even sharper.

  Dr. Kerr didn't notice Troi's reaction.  Rather, her gaze released Mr. Castillo to return to her cup; then her focus turned inward, tightening.  "No, I'd not understood anything until I came into the household," she continued, as though she hadn't paused.  "A pure fool, I was--couldn't take two steps without bringing about the ruin of one thing or another."

  "It was pretty rough for you," he allowed, though with a note that wanted more.  "We couldn't help but joke about it, even when we were annoyed.  We all but waited to see what trouble you'd get into next."

  "Sandra once told me about the bets Yang and Saul used to make, the jokes at my expense."

  "She came down on Saul a few times for his part in it."

  "You all got plenty of material from me at the time, granted.  To this day, I leave the farming to my family.  I'd always had good reasons for it...and then I got more, there on Romulus."  Once again, Dr. Kerr paused, drawing a slow, silent breath, and her mind went blank but for her present thought, simply put:  "You'd think that egg gathering couldn't go wrong for me, too, wouldn't you?"  She frowned and pushed the handle on the teacup around, turning it in a circle on the saucer.  As silence filled the room once more, the scraping of the ceramics grew into a peal.

  That time, Troi felt a sharp chill shoot down her spine, drawing a soft gasp from her lips.

  Dr. Kerr was now too locked into her memory to notice that, too. 

  "Wrong found me, instead."  
 

* * *

   
  _  
Coming Next:  Chapter Seven.  Guidance  
© D'Alaire M., 2011  
swiftian@yahoo.com  
_


	7. Guidance

  Dacey Kerr stepped onto the grate of the roosts, pulling on her gloves and glancing around to make sure the cages had been hooked up properly.  On her third day there, a few of the latches had come loose, allowing the birds to peck them off, and so she'd had to scamper out until Badock and Shurrol could come and demand an explanation.  She had tried not to make a bigger ass of herself, but her mouth opened and Romulan babble came out.  Truly hideous, it must have sounded to poor Badock, who'd done nothing to deserve the slaughter of his mother tongue.  To try to make up for the mistake, she was triply watchful each time after, coming in and going out.

  She had to do _something_ right there.  No doubt, after all her blunders in the processing plants and in the fields, they'd eventually make an excuse to reassign her for good in an incinerator.  Certainly, Yang and Adamson had recommended it enough for all the extra work she'd caused them.  More, her pride had been suffering great crashes and falls since the dark day they had been deposited on that alien world.  An intense child and overachieving teenager, she'd had no mind whatsoever for the farm work her dutiful brother happily sank into:  Day one out of nappies, he had fallen into work boots and hadn't slipped them off since.  Three years his junior, Dacey had spent the same years off reading somewhere, absorbing language as quickly as she could be exposed to it, entering the university a few weeks shy of her sixteenth birthday and putting a hand to her ear to shield the constant bleat of sheep.

  She closed her eyes.  It was harder still when she thought about them.  As it should be, but she often had to tell herself to put them aside.  Self-control was one of her biggest failures, both mentally and verbally.  Her mouth had gotten her into every ounce of trouble she'd suffered since learning how to put two letters together, and pride without question had made it stick.  A nervous personality to begin with, not getting things right only made her more likely not to get any more right, like squeezing an egg too hard because it'd been dropped the last time.

  _Eggs._

  Dacey jerked her head and shook off her distraction.  The clamor of the crussu birds wasn't going to get any less noisy, and the eggs weren't going to sort and bag themselves whilst she mused on about the useless.

  "Miserable," she muttered bitterly.  "Useless...waste of a life..."  Seething a breath, she filed through her memory and began a new round of diversion.  "Krealg orra vol tchnivigash..."

  And maybe they deserved a healthy curse.  Dacey thought highly enough of herself in general, but was sufficiently self-aware to know that she was not an easy person to get on with.  Then again, Adamson and Yang still needed a swift kick on the pants, and Castillo needed to decide whether he wanted to be the paternal CO or a fraternity asshole.

  "Seealg mai'ghor..."

  The screeches ebbed.  She slumped a little.

  She missed home so much.  She missed Dennis so much.  She missed their bed, their plans, their many dreams--childish, even foolish dreams, and yet dreams they had shared.  She missed the familiar call of her mother to come to meals, her dad, brother and cousins when they came in from the fields with their heavy, turf-packed boots, kids racing circles around the house and the clamor of the lot around their big, oaken table and heavily worn benches.

  She even missed sheep.  _Sheep._

  She missed _life_ so much, so much it hurt.

  _None of that now,_ she reminded herself as the crussu wound up again, a steady hiss followed by keening and choked out gobs.  _Get on with it._

  So she did--or at least she got to work, because of course the thoughts and the wanting would never, never end.  Pressing her goggles into place then hooking her gloves to her sleeves, Dacey sighed and stepped near to the roosts to collect the eggs that fell through the slots. 

  Crussu were sedentary birds during the daytime, during which time they produced impressive amounts of good tasting eggs.  Despite their relatively small size, however, the fowl were amazingly aggressive when touched.  The creatures hardly even made contact each other unless it was a mate or its fertilized eggs and young.  Unassociated crussu left together in the running pens behind the roosts would tear each other to death in little time.  Dacey had arrived one recent morning to see Orbat collecting horrific, feathered chunks in the run, Robok and Essala scrubbing the bloody cement and Adren dragging the thrashing "victor's" cage back to the roosts and its mate.  In their roosting space, they saw even feeding hands as five-fingered invaders, so eyegear for flying feathers and spittle and sturdy gloves for pecking and biting were essential, even with a grate to restrict them. 

  Speed was also rather helpful.  Thankfully, that was one thing Dacey did enjoy in her work.  When she was on task, she was rather quick.

  So quickly, too, she collected the morning's overflow.  Ignoring the birds' nasty little faces, Dacey mechanically rolled the eggs from the rounded palm of her glove into an inspection tray.  Turning each, she set the good ones into a padded storage bag and set the eggs into the stasis chamber.  Pressing the button to lower the tray, she took another bag and started again.

  Meanwhile, the hissing and raspy clucking continued, followed by the occasional roll of an egg into the outer chamber.  She did not go for those right away, but finished the sorting and setting into stasis, catching herself up for the morning.

  "Cladi giira oh navtorrog gibbor," she sang to herself, a song she had learned a few years ago.  Risans had great music, she recalled, and a lovely language she'd picked up easily during a holiday there, her fourth exo-Terran language.

  She rolled the tray, making all the eggs fall into to holes just right, then turned, turned...set aside one, then another.  The crussu barked and hissed, but she sang through it, remembering when last she sang it.  Turn, turn...

  "Gibbor divar glorr girlda..."

  She'd learned the song wonderfully.  Her voice, however, as Dennis often reminded her, could use a great deal more instruction.  Thankfully, the birds sounded much worse...though Dennis might argue with her about that...would they ever argue again.

  Into the bag went the next batch, and that into the stasis. 

  "Glorr abadris lo vaglida..."

  She turned to grab the next bag and jumped back with a cry.

  Jovvok was standing at the door.  She hadn't heard it open.

  Somehow, she spoke without the presence of blood or a heart in her chest.  Both had dropped to her feet thanks to the surprise.

  "Centurion Jovvok," she said with a bow of respect.  Not only had she learned through the other khurr'ocs' fear of the man and all she had heard and seen of others' punishments that extreme deference was most wise with that one.  The shot in her gut also advised caution.  Jovvok never troubled himself to monitor assignments when there were no alerts.  He was there for something.  "How may I serve you with honor?" she added in carefully enunciated Rul'siat Romulan.  The centurion was from the western border of the region.

  "Farm slave will show me the crussu mating roosts," he replied coldly.

  Dacey's eyes widened briefly as she considered the order.  Those roosts were in the back of the section, and not of any use to her assignment.  Another shot of fear flooded her before she remembered that it was exposed to the rear yards.  She would not be trapped in a room and would not be unseen by any guards passing by in the rows.  She hung up her bag.  "I obey you, Centurion Jovvok."

  "You hesitate," he observed.

  "I considered if I were permitted in that section, Centurion Jovvok," she lied, and lied well, for he seemed to accept it.  "May I lead you, Centurion Jovvok?"

  "You will lead," he ordered.

  From the open grate under the roosts to the finer metal grate flooring the back row, Dacey heard her sandals slide.  The heavy clang of boots bounced into her ears as Jovvok followed close behind.  Dacey tapped the hatch control and shivered at the sudden gust of cool, dry air.  When she'd wandered outside to watch the other slaves go through the morning chant, she hadn't thought it bad.  Dressed down to her tunic, trousers and sandals and coming out of the warm, moist hen room, the gust was bracing.  But then, she had always been a "winter person," enjoying lounging in the outdoors even in the deepest weeks of winter back home, so even Rul'siat weather wasn't too bothersome once she breathed into it. 

  Once through the corridor and into the back roosts, Dacey looked around.  The birds were all in order: Mates and their young were all tucked away in their hay-stuffed cages.  They had been quiet at first, but upon the entrance of the invaders, the beaks opened and the hisses began.  This being nothing new to Dacey in the other room, she simply stood aside and gestured with an open palm.  "The mating roosts, Centurion Jovvok," she presented with another bow.

  "Farm slave will show me the safety latch."

  Dacey furrowed her brow but swallowed her immediate question.  Obviously, he was not going to tell her what his business was, and with further thought, she was less surprised by the request.  Word was that the general was quite particular about keeping a clean and efficient farm, and so spot inspections like that were common and effective.  No one dared neglect their responsibility lest they be further disgraced among a humble rank.  Maybe it was about Orbat, who was on duty when two of the birds escaped.  What struck Dacey as curious was that the centurion had to commit that appraisal.  Had Jovvok acted out of line, however, menial inspections would be an excellent punishment for the proud young officer.

  So, keeping her mouth shut and her back straight, Dacey moved to a cage with the smallest mates and a single chick and secured her gloves and goggles for the predictable reaction.  Bracing her hip against the edge of the door, she demonstrated the latch system, pulling the series of bars and flipping the hinges out.  Finally, she detached the magnetized pins and showed them to Jovvok, trying not to flinch when the crussu started beating at her leg through the cage grate.

  He made her stand there, pins in her hands, for nearly a minute, his eyes steady on her.  Dacey forced herself with every ounce of resolve not to be impatient, not to open her mouth, not to sour him when he at last looked pleased and bent his head minutely.  Dacey took that as an approval.  Still, she asked, "Is my demonstration satisfactory, Centurion Jovvok?"

  "It is," he replied.

  "May I demonstrate anything else, Centurion Jovvok?"

  "Show me the reassembly of the latch," he commanded.

  Sighing with relief, Dacey turned back to the lock and set the pins into the holes, carefully aligning each before setting them in lest they come out and drop through the floor grate.  That was _not_ something she wanted to climb down and look for.

  When she had given the door a shake to ensure its alignment, she felt a pressure on her head--then a grip. 

  Her hair was caught. 

  Before she could gasp or think to wonder what was going on, she saw an olive-toned hand reach around her and grab the handle of the still unlocked cage.  Her eyes shot open behind her goggles when she felt her hair practically ripping from her skull as her head was jerked around and shoved into the cage.

  "Ah God!  _No!_ " she cried out before she could think to shut her mouth and lips tight.  But she did the moment she felt a beak rip into her.  So she cried in her throat--then sobbed as another beak hit her skin, then another--and all three crussu were on her.  The shearing pain coursed through her nerves and she realized she'd be mutilated.  Her arms shot out, grasping for mercy, for escape.

  She pushed wildly against the cage, but Jovvok's knee pinned her against the frame.

  "Aaaah!" she gasped uncontrollably.  Blood dripped down her face--her cheeks and chin and nose, they all had to be torn, devoured.  Her body convulsed and scrambled, desperate and terrified...  She closed her mouth again, choking on her tears and blood; a beak ripped her lip open.  Reflexively, she opened her eyes and saw the birds through the spots of gore dripping down the silicone.  Wicked and screaming, opening their beaks for more--her face, crussu feeding on her flesh in bitter fury, tearing, ripping...killing....

  Finally, the agony overcame her and she fell limp in Jovvok's relentless grip.  Sobs shook her as she prayed she would pass out, mutilated and defeated...  And she thought of her husband.  She thought of Dennis' face when he saw his beaten, mutilated wife delivered home to him in a capsule...  She thought of her parents, crying out in horror.

  Dacey's sobs began anew, even as Jovvok extracted her head from the cage.  He slammed the door shut and slapped the locking pin into place.  Then he laid her on the floor, his knee securing her at the collarbone.  He yanked off her goggles and glared at her through her tears.  After several seconds, he reached into his pocket and withdrew an instrument.  Before she could register its shape and sound, she felt the pain quickly recede.  Jerking her head in disbelief, she realized that he was healing her wounds.

  Several minutes passed as he restored her.  Meanwhile, her anger flourished, and she forced herself to stay still and silent as, with another instrument, Jovvok carefully cleaned away the blood--all evidence of his attack.

  Jovvok was observant of her through the procedure, though, and noticed what was in his patient's undamaged eyes as he finished his work.  "You would still fight me, Farm Slave?"

  "No, Centurion Jovvok," she said, forcing each word.

  "You do not accept your punishment if you hate it."

  "You just came to torture me," Dacey finally muttered, feeling the sting remaining in her lip, feeling her body shudder the last five minutes filed through her again.  The pain was gone, leaving but the memory, and a bitter one at that.  "And you plan to get away with doing that to me."

  "You speak with the belief that is not my right to see to your improvement," he slowly informed her.  "I have been informed of your negligent behavior and damage to General Tokarel's property."

  Dacey's heart shrank.  Had she any food on her stomach, she would have ejected it.  It had been easy to forget that Badock was not ultimately in charge there.

  "Rather than punish your entire block for your transgressions," Jovvok added, "I have chosen to deal with you personally."

  He had finished the treatment.  Looking her over, he straightened, though he did not release her at first.  Seeming to think about what to do next, he pocketed his regenerator and moved his knee off her chest.  Standing, he let Dacey struggle stupidly to her hands and feet, then at last force herself upright.  Returned to her feet, she understood how her whole body felt crushed, depleted.  Wild flashes flew again behind her eyes, reviving her shudders.

  Jovvok took her arm into his grip and made her face him, but she couldn't even then.  She was still catching up with the jumble inside her, all of uselessly vengeful, aching and numb from the terror, just passed--though not passed, too.  Jovvok still loomed, waiting for her full attention.  Still, she couldn’t do it.  Her heart thudded; chills ran down her limbs.  Her knees bobbled.

  At last, summoning her will and nerve, she finally got her spine in place again and straightened to look up at him.  She could not form words, though--not that words would do her any good at that point.  Jovvok would do his duty as well as his black heart pleased him to.

  He had but one thing to say:  "A single report and you will enjoy the execution of your block, and then your own."  His hand shot out from his side and he grabbed her hair again, ripping her head around to look at the cage once more.

  Dacey's pulse whirred to life, and her every limb followed suit.  Before her, the crussu saw her as well as she saw them.  Hissing anew, her blood still staining them, the chick still gobbling a piece of her skin, they waited to see if there would be a repeat to the invasion.

  Jovvok held her there as the memories of only minutes ago pierced her, and she began to cry.  Perhaps a plea, too, fell from her lips, as she tried instinctively to writhe out of the centurion's grip, not caring if her scalp went with him.  Anything but the crussu.  Anything but that again...

  "Again, you resist, Farm Slave," came his voice, a demonic echo somewhere behind her whimpers.

  Without further warning, he shoved her goggles into place, slapped open the cage door and he shoved her into to the screaming, spitting crussu once again.

  That time, though, she fought it.  The shock was gone and drive set in--survival...

  A peck--scream, peck, peck...

  Dacey cried and squeezed her eyes tight, wishing she could pray to something--anything--to free herself.

  Then the crussu screams deafened her to even her own screams, and they tore at her lips and tongue until she forced her sobs behind her shut mouth again.  Her body convulsed then collapsed, and her clenched fists fell away and reached for nothing, tense and jerking, then falling to her sides.  Mercilessly, she did not lose consciousness; insanely, she opened her eyes as he extracted her again and shut the cage door.  She shook from head to toe, unable to stop it, unable to think or speak and feel anything but the searing hell of her ravaged face, bleeding, falling apart even as Jovvok pinned her down again, pulled off her goggles and took out the regenerator.

  For a moment, he looked concerned--and the cold air blowing into one side of her cheek told her what it might be about--but he activated the instrument, and then another, and went to work.  Again, he carefully tended her, taking his time to do it well, and there were no words, no commands and no admonitions.  He may as well have been tending a little garden.  Likewise, she let him to his work and drove all idea of speaking out of her mind.  The thought of opening her mouth again only hearkened pain and screaming.

  She felt the regenerator repair her, but that time, the pain was not assuaged—not where it mattered.  The memory of her trauma was strong now, as was the knowledge that she was entirely in Jovvok's hands.  Staring lifelessly at him, she felt a deadly awareness overtake her.

  She was now subject to Jovvok.

  When the regenerator stopped, he set it away and got up, the toe of his boot at her temple.  Dacey rolled over.  Her limbs still trembled and her eyes were wet, but she managed to get her knees and hands under her.  Slowly, she got herself upright, straightening as best she could.  She felt like there were a thousand pulled muscles in her back and neck, but she did pull up her head and look at him.  His arched brow rose briefly; her lips parted.  "Yes, Centurion Jovvok."

  "You obey?"

  Her eyes wetted, and she sucked a shaking breath.  "I...  I obey you, Centurion Jovvok."

  His hand shot out to her hair once more and he snatched away her goggles.

  She choked and froze.  _Not again,_ she suddenly prayed.  _Not again, oh please..._

  He brought her very close to his face, leveling his clear brown stare to her reddened blue.  She didn't dare even blink, though, then, or breathe, or think.

  Suddenly, he shoved her to down onto the grate floor, tossing her goggles in front of her.

  "I may or may not enjoy your cowardice again," he said.  Then she heard his boots clopping down the grate, hollow and gradual, echoing back through the forward roosts.  The insulted spits and growling of birds stopped a moment after the doors shut behind him.

  Dacey lay for minutes...minutes more, shuddering, choking and, worst of all, knowing she should get back to her duties.  She didn't care.  The crussu could drown in their evil product for all she cared.

  Still, in her muddled, swirling mind, she knew she needed to catch up.  She had to catch up...not be negligent.  Negligent.

  Even as she got to her hands and knees to go to it, she bent with weeping.  
 

  Hours later, she hardly cared about the forms looking at her or talking to her.  She stumbled through the barracks, hearing sounds but not registering them, their bodies but blurs passing at left and at right as she propelled herself away, away from them all, praying none would touch her.  She couldn't bear the thought of being touched.  She felt like she would come out of her skin if one even breathed on her..

  Skin...  Torn, speared, bits of flesh hanging from the mouths of chicks...  When she thought of her face in a mirror, she could see it.  She was terrified of her dreams.

  Her face set hard and frowning, she moved only so she could throw herself onto her bunk and bury herself.  Her neck was sore and strained from being secured above her wild writhing--a reminder of her pain and desperation, as though nothing else were.  She lay flat on the stiff sheet anyway, trying again with no more success to get the images out of her head and tried more desperately still not to cry of shudder. 

  Never once in her life had she imagined it possible to be utterly powerless and prey to the will of others.  Not once in her life did she imagine pain and fear like that was possible.

  Not once had she imagined that she could want so desperately to die.

* * *

 

  "You will join us, Dacey?" asked Tharol, eyeing her particularly.  The Movagh native khurr'oc had been encouraging Dacey and Ferro to join the morning chant for two seasons.  Dacey in particular could understand and pronounce the cycles, so Tharol's requests came more often to her.

  Dacey crossed her arms tightly on her chest.  "If you will have me."

  Tharol bent her head in a single nod, notably pleased at Dacey's change of mind.  "My honor, friend," she said and moved to let the human tevol'oc walk beside her.

  Dacey hadn't slept an hour together.  Just the thought of returning to her duty horrified her, and as soon as she began to drift into sleep, the images, the flashes when she could not help but open her eyes, and the grip, tearing at her scalp, and Jovvok's deathly glare as she cried and trembled...  The living nightmare beat her out of any prevailing exhaustion.

  She shuddered and huddled into her cloak.  Conversely, she barely remembered eating breakfast.  Her eyes were everywhere, and she looked for him to come to taunt her.  Released from the mess, she peered around outside with the same goal when she saw Badock striding quickly toward them.  Stiffening, Dacey prepared herself for what he might say, but his attention seemed only to be a moment of surprise to see her next to Tharol and moving into the courtyard with the others.  He fell into the front rows as usual the moment he filtered the change.  Meanwhile, Tharol's quick and hushed Romulan words filtered into her head and she vaguely translated them as directions.

  "You will be forgiven for mistakes at first," Tharol added.

  "Or perhaps not," Dacey muttered, feeling the screams echo within her.  She dragged a deep breath of cold air and trudged along.

  Coming into a line with Tharol and Ashavek flanking her, Dacey suddenly wondered how she'd gotten there, and then she wondered why she was staying put.  Then she remembered, and then she understood.  In her fear and distraction, something suddenly drew her; the community and stability that she'd always suspected when watching from the benches on the barracks wall felt…protective, calming.  Did they chant to the Great Star for any hidden traumas of their own?  Or did they simply wish to be a part of a whole that was in turn connected to the Empire?

  Dacey's eyes turned down.  She had always fancied herself _apart_ from the whole, able to go her own way and be her own person.  Not unusual among her breed; her personality engendered that very treatment from others, and so all the more she had been left to her own devices.  But while indeed independent, she knew now that she was not unique or clever.  She wasn't charming, nor was she brave.  She was but a slight, plain young woman with a lot of talk and a fair dose of terror.  And she did belong to her family and her people as much as she had enjoyed her liberty and quick mind, and much as she did _not_ have those things now, and likely never would again.  So with the absence of that bedrock, that assurance, she _did_ need to belong to something, to ground herself, a barometer, a proving ground to test herself against.  If her family was lost to her, then she must have something to keep her sane.  She must have something to keep her from losing herself…losing her soul.

  Why she did not go to Mika or the others about Jovvok, she at first believed there was no good reason.  Of course they should know and would not say anything if she insisted.  But as she considered leaning on her former superior again, she realized the truth to her shame:  _You were never the right fit, and you do want them to know what happened--but not for their sakes or yours, you self-centered fool.  But of course, that's precisely what's going to hold your tongue now, too._

  Dacey's shoulders fell and she shuddered again.  The memories welled, and the others' importance faded further.  Want for community or not, Starfleet, Romulus or elsewhere, she knew she was forced to be alone in the end, locked into knowledge she'd have done anything to avoid and could never avenge.

  For the rest of her life...

  Tharol elbowed her in the side, jerking Dacey from her thoughts.  Badock had stepped forward to lead the group and, turning toward them and reaching out with an outstretched palm, their eyes briefly met.  Dacey coughed a silent cry and gave him a nod of respect.  He returned it, clasped his hand into a fist as if taking a handful of the chill morning air, raised it then addressed the whole.

  "Iglahk toh!" he proclaimed and all fell to attention.  "Iglahk khar mi'urrv migret hochok au," he continued, now in a songlike chant.

  "Iglahk khar mi'urrv migret hochok au," came the repeat, an echo in the court.

  Immediately, Badock continued the song, which echoed smoothly back to him:  "Uera'tik puocha mich'as ag davo erl pah..."

  Dacey pulled a deep breath.  The echo of the chant was powerful when one was within it.  She felt their proud cries in her head and in her chest....

  "Iglahk toh..."

  "Iglahk toh au tiki chabbrolg..."

  The pitch rose even as the reverence lowered the volume--intense, burrowing passion for their duty, their purpose.

  "Vishib au zal chem i ag nivi'omu at nurruta..."

  "Havasyiad."  At this, they all bowed and let the silence take over for several seconds.  Dacey felt the silence in her heart.  Then they all straightened, and their voices slowly rose again at Badock's lead.  "Iglahk tiki chabbrolg hochka migret."

  "Mich'as ag davo pah kro'shkok..."

  "Iglahk toh!"

  The first cycle done, Badock raised another fistful of air as he sang out a single note, an invocation of strength and purpose.  Then, as all found the same note, he began again.  "Iglahk khar mi'urrv migret hochok au..." 

  _Give us strength and courage in our duty, Great Star,_ Dacey translated as, awkwardly, she grasped a handful of air and raised it high alongside the others. _Let it feed our bodies and keep us on the path of honor.  Guide us, Great Star.  Great Star, guide us, give us strength; cleanse our purpose and bring us to stand before you with pride.  Havasyiad.  Give us strength and courage, Great Star, keep us on the path that brings us honor.  Guide us, Great Star!_

  In the third turn, as the heralding chant note rang out among her fellow slaves, Dacey remembered the last of the instructions she was given by Tharol and joined the others in the invocation.  As she tried to match the note, she focused on Badock's rising hand, praying as she should for her chosen goal: restraint.

  "Iglahk toh!"

  She only wished she actually believed in it ever being able to help her.  She was trapped.

  "Iglahk toh au tiki chabbrolg..."

  Dacey's eyes glinted as the stared out at the dim sun on the horizon.

  _Great Star, guide me, give me strength._

* * *

 

  Dacey's stare darted about, checking every corner of the portico as she hurried through it en route to the roosts.  She turned her eyes down as she presented her wrist for ID confirmation by the guard there, and she trembled a bit to punch the roost access hatch and open the door.  Each time she arrived for her shift now, she expected him there, his dark eyes nailing spikes into her soul, his ready hand rising from his side to catch her.  Throughout her shifts, she had expected to turn and see him there.

  But for three days, only the hisses and spittle of the deadly crussu greeted her.  Each day, she eyed each one of their cages, ensuring with hesitant fingers that all the cages were locked properly, flinching at the crussu's protests, feeling the muscles in her neck twinge with stress.

  Reassured, she hung up her cloak and collected her gear to start without further delay.  The eggs never waited.  Romulans did have a great love of them and used them in nearly everything they cooked, so there was a steady demand from the household and both barracks.  Painfully, she could admit to enjoying their heavy flavor, too, too.  --And certainly, seeing to it that the evil beasts were eaten rather than multiplied made them taste even better.

  She surveyed the output board while she pulled on her gloves.  There were four roost workers, three slaves and one farm technician.  Dacey worked the second shift, coming on five minutes after Morib, the third of three supervisors.  She read the board and checked the numbers, quickly translating them.  Then she snapped her goggles into the right size by pulling the extension strap all the way out.  She was a small-boned woman just under average height, but she had inherited her mother's heart-shaped head and thick mop of hair.  She'd always had to upsize headgear.

  Turning, she bent and began loading the tray.  "Odyn, dva, try, chotyry, p'yat, shist," she said quietly to herself, "sim, visim, dev'yat, desyat…" The birds seemed a little sluggish that morning, which drew no complaints from her.  A quieter shift had never been unwelcome, but she craved calm particularly of late, with the idea that what happened the other day might be repeated plaguing her, the sight and sounds of....

  Tilting the tray, she turned and saw Jovvok there.

  She dropped it all and backed up to the wall before she could think about doing either.  Instantly, her limbs were numb but ready to bolt.  Her heart hammered under her ribs.  Her tongue caught in her throat.

  She had dreaded he would come again, but she could not have prepared for the arrival.  There could be no preparation for...

  "Farm slave will show me the crussu mating roosts."

  Her blood chilled at those words.  She'd dreaded them for six days, knowing she would hear them, knowing...

  At no response, his brow rose and he repeated, "Farm slave will show me the crussu mating roosts."

  "The hell I will," she retorted at last, her terror giving way to stupidity.

  "You disobey orders," he replied, though he hardly seemed displeased at it.  "Apparently, you have learned nothing."

  "Fargin devil straight from hell," she retorted, "I'd watch you burn there could I personally deliver you."

  "You disrespect me as well."

  "Obviously, nothing I say is going to make this day any better," she shot back, even as her panic multiplied.  Her eyes shot toward the door, but her feet froze in their place at the last moment.

  Jovvok suffered no such impediment.  Taking two long strides across the room, she shrank more into the corner and cried out, her gloved hands flying up to her face.  He snatched her hands away and struck her cheek soundly, cracking her lip.  "The crussu will enjoy that odor," he said and grabbed her by the hair.

  "No!" Dacey wailed, her arms flying back to grasp futilely at the smooth concrete wall.  "God, no!"  With a yank, she was out of the corner and staggering on boneless legs, clutching at Jovvok's arm to save her scalp.  She saw the corridor fall around them and the hatch approach.  Her heart jumped as she suddenly heard herself screaming again, "No, no!  No!  _Please_ , Centurion Jovvok!  Please!  I beg you don't do this to me again!  I will obey!  I will!  Just don't!  I will obey!"

  "I am amazed your people let such cowardice live past infancy," Jovvok replied and smacked the control for the door.

  The hatch ground shut on the cacophony of his laughter, the hisses of angrily feeding birds and a human's muffled agony.

* * *

 

  Her hand was wrapped around her fork--her whole hand, for her fingers shook so badly, she could hardly hold her tray, much less the thin, flat utensil.  She felt them looking at her for it, too, but she slumped over her tray and forced herself to eat, forced herself to keep them from asking, from seeing.

  But she felt...  She felt it all. 

  He had made her see.  He had made her know...

  Seated in the middle of the long series of mess tables, elbow to elbow with the others of her rank, Dacey shoved a forkful of greens into her mouth.  She could not cry.  Crying would make them ask.  She had no doubt that Jovvok would find them, too.  If he could get away with what he'd done to her...  But then, maybe the other Romulans knew.  Maybe it was a plan...

  There, she corrected herself.  From the day Emidas had counseled them, they all could tell that Jovvok was despised and feared.  She did not think green-blooded humanoids could blanch until she saw Tharol caution them about the centurion.  Tharol...

  Tharol's block mate Narin had taken in Sikara after the latter had taken correction from Jovvok.  Once proud, the young tevol'oc had been reduced to following Narin around like a meek child until she had been mercifully granted another assignment in the household.

  Mika was eyeing her hard as she chewed, watching her repress her trembling limbs.  Dacey knew she was hiding it poorly.  She still wouldn't let it out.  She could see Mika's head in the cage....

  "Having a bad hair day, Dacey?" asked Ferro, trying to break her silence with that shared joke.  They both had suffered their thick ringlets since being taken captive.  Ferro's own hair, long enough at last to pull back, still stuck out in ugly, blonde springs on both sides of her head.

  Dacey saw them dripping with blood....

  She shook her head.  "I'm fine.  Just hungry, Sandra, thank you," she answered.

  "Are you okay?" Mika pressed.

  Yang snorted.  "Egg rolling comes with its own long list of difficulties."

  "Enough," said Castillo firmly.  "We're all allowed a bad day."

  "Bad year, too," Adamson said under his breath.

  "Castillo's right," Parker said.  "She's out of your hair and doesn't give you any grief.  Give her a break."

  Yang shrugged then nodded.  "Yeah.  Sorry, Dacey.  I can't help it sometimes."

  She didn't look up.  "I just need some food," she muttered to Mika.  "I've not slept well and that can unhinge me a bit--not that I need any help, you know."

  "But you _are_ pale," Mika pressed.

  "I'm that by nature and I've been working indoors in a dark winter," Dacey returned and stuffed another portion into her mouth.  It still hurt a little.  Jovvok had made certain of it.  He wanted her to feel her memory.

  The hisses...screams...and his laughter...

  She shuddered again, hiding her hands under the table while she chewed.  She now wondered if she could possibly get through evening meal, with all those eyes on her, watching...tearing....

  She suddenly felt a warm hand touch her shoulder and she sprang up with a cry, smacking the table and catching her foot on the bench leg.  In the next second, she fell back and down to the floor, smacking her head on the rough stone floor.

  "Bloody hell!" she spat and scrambled away from Mika.  "Just leave me be!" she screamed, treacherous tears falling from her eyes.  "I said I was well and you couldn't leave it be!  Devil take all of you!"  Feeling a set of strong hands take her arms from behind, and froze now in terror.  Then the grip gentled, and she jerked her head around to see Badock's sober face.  "What?!" she demanded.

  "You have stricken your head, Dacey," he told her, "and are bleeding.  You will go to Hajat immediately."  He signaled Emidas from her table.

  Dacey shook her head, now guilty on top of everything else to see Badock's assistant give up her meal, too.  "It is not serious," she told him in Romulan.

  "I am required to see to your block's care," Badock told her firmly.  "Do not dishonor my duty."

  Emidas was there now, and Dacey looked apologetically at her.  "I can take myself."

  "You will not," Badock ordered then motioned Emidas to lift her.

  "She may be ill," Mika told them.  "Tell Hajat."

  "It will be done," said Emidas as she gestured to Dacey their direction.

  Now thoroughly humiliated before the entirety of the farm staff, Dacey also caught Castillo giving her a concerned look.  She frowned and turned sharply away.  She didn't want his concern.  She wanted him to hate her a little--just a little, just as much as she hated him for helping them to survive.

* * *

 

  Hajat lowered her scanner.  She said nothing, but observed her patient.

  Dacey stared back.  Her anxiety had already been treated with a sedative, but her nerves remained pricked inside--demanding silently what she knew Hajat would deduce.  The slightest dip of her chin, without a blink, was all she would communicate.  Meanwhile, she prayed that the barracks medical technician was not beholden to the same duty as Badock.

  Hajat drew a deep breath, but she still did not speak for what felt like another full minute.  Rather, she placed her scanner into its case and gently folded her medicines into a drawer.  At last, she glanced Dacey's way and said, "Head injuries of all forms are not to be neglected.  I will trust you will report if you have any difficulties beyond your ability to perform your duty well."

  The medic's meaning was clear, and Dacey felt her shoulders fall a little, her back loosen.  "I will do as you advise, Hajat."

  "Return before your shift for another injection."

  "I obey you, Hajat," she returned respectfully and moved to her feet.  Her knees gave a little, but her legs had strength enough to propel her out of the medical attendant's office and back to her block.

  The next morning, she filed down to the courtyard with Tharol and Narin and moved immediately with them into the middle row.

  "Iglahk toh!"

* * *

 

  She hardly jumped that time when she turned to wipe her tray and saw Jovvok inside the door once again.  She had been waiting for him.

  It had been four days.  The intervals were somewhat regular.

  She felt relief in that.  Relief.

  _Relief._

  The wait was over.

  Her hands fell to her sides and the tray dropped from her fingers and onto the floor.  At first, she thought she would be strong and face him.  Then, for the briefest moment, she turned her head to deny him his duty, but when he took a step toward her and raised his chin to examine her, her knees loosened and she fell onto them.  There, she let out a sob, gasping for want to truly cry.  And she didn't care about her weakness, and she didn't care about her honor.  She would mourn, like it or not, mourn her use, mourn her youth, her spirit and perhaps even her sanity, and she prayed that he might take pity or become bored or too disgusted to amuse himself with her pain and fear, which had not left her for a moment since their first encounter. 

  He stood with seeming patience for several minutes, until her gasps and shudders ebbed, until she had calmed down enough to simply sit, silent.  After another minute, she had the strength to look at him.  His face had gone unchanged.

  "How do you speak to those of rank, Farm Slave?" he quietly demanded.

  Dacey drew a shaky breath.  "How may I serve you with honor, Centurion Jovvok?" she whispered.

  "You speak respectfully now," he approved.

  "I have learned to."

  "You have improved through my guidance."

  She resisted every urge to turn her eyes away, and she hated herself for wanting to do so more than she dared to lash out.  No, the very last thing she wanted to do was to earn a new level of discipline.  "You have guided me to a newfound respect, yes, Centurion Jovvok."  The words were poison on her tongue and in her heart, but she knew they were truth.

  "You are grateful, then, for your education."

  "Yes, Centurion, Jovvok.  I am grateful to know better now how properly to behave...as one of my rank should."

  "Stand, Farm Slave."

  She pushed herself to her feet and straightened.  She made herself hold his stare even as he loomed over her, and she forced her breath to hold steady.

  "Address me again, Farm Slave," he commanded.

  She shivered, but she said the words clearly, "How may I serve you with honor, Centurion Jovvok?"

  He straightened with satisfaction.  "Farm slave will show me the crussu mating roosts."

  Stillness was her first response.  Then her eyes closed and her back bent.  Then she found herself turning, stepping, and then moving to the passageway as numbness overcame her limbs and chest.  There was nothing she could do.  There was nothing she could say.  There was nowhere she could go but in the direction he desired. 

  His boots panged against the grate, one pace behind her.

* * *

 

  Precisely twenty-four days later--for she did count the days now, hours and even every minute--Dacey and the others had been surprised by a summons to the compound mall just after the morning chant:

  "Magr'oc wan naghav mikadar'ah dok ahkull!"

  Ferro pulled her heavy outdoor tunic over her head.  "What was that?"

  "We're to report to the mall and stand at ready for the general's word," Dacey quietly answered as she stood by Yang's bed, hands held at the ready, watching Innvira work on the invalid.

  "Why?" Castillo asked.

  Dacey did not move.  "Must they tell us?  They call, we go."

  When at last the medicines had been spent and he handed them up, Dacey took the injection trays from Innivra with careful hands.  Her fingers still ached.  The fine muscles in them had been more difficult to treat.  The trays were spilling over with eggs by the time she had been able to resume her duty.

  "Can you set up the next cycle?" Innivra asked her.

  "I will, yes," she answered and turned for the table.

  Innivra returned his attention to Yang and activated a medical scanner to see how the medicines were working.  Being the sole officer among them with any medical training, the young Tyrellian had been assigned to see to Yang's treatments and mobility rehabilitation after the vibiiad bite incident a couple of days ago. 

  He had also accepted Dacey's application to assist him.  Having returned from her shift yesterday to learn about the general's consort, followed by the general himself, appearing and jumping on Yang's treatment, Dacey could think of no other reaction but to volunteer her help.  Without delay, she fetched orders from Hajat and translated them, helped Innivra organize the hypospray trays and to arrange the schedule they needed to follow.

  She knew that she had surprised him with her offer and her follow through.  How could such a change in her not be remarkable to them--and particularly the even-tempered and lightly empathic Tyrellian?  But after a little time, he seemed not to doubt her.  "I never took you for a person who could be so practical, Dacey."  Midway through the long night, they had gotten to talking before he addressed his observations.  "You always seemed to be off in your own realm with your back turned toward us.  But I appreciate your help now.  I'm not patient or adept enough to translate what I need to the others, or to take dictation from Hajat, and you seem not to require the sleep that the others do."

  "Indeed, I don't.  I'll do what I can, when I'm here."

  "I wouldn't have imagined you to, but I feel your seriousness."

  "I've aye had more to say than I should," Dacey explained, "and I'd long thought far more of myself than I'd any right to, certain.  I can lecture no one about patience, too, but I have a heart somewhere in there.  I don't like to see suffering."

  She looked at Yang, then; invalid and medicated, he had been silently watching their exchange.  She had sat on his arm while he had writhed in agony the other day, wondering if her face had reflected similar contortions, if he too had never imagined pain like that was possible until fate had caught up with him.  She knew how her heart had lurched at the sight of herself, Jovvok's evil satisfaction looming behind her, and she knew the weight of her dread, the duty she must bring herself to, the correction she must now request with great respect....

  "Particularly having learned what it is to suffer."

  Yang blinked and furrowed his brow, but he did not try to speak.  Dacey turned away from him.

  The next morning, a couple of minutes after the summons echoed into the block, a hoverseat was brought for Yang.  Dacey fetched his cloak as Innivra pulled on his socks and sandals; then she draped the large cloth around the man, tucking it in on the sides.  Dacey caught his eyes a couple of times while she did it.  His look had remained curious, but thankfully, he still was too weak to say anything now and so didn't try. 

  She touched his cheek and gave him a small, quick smile and a jerk of a nod.  "You're set for the while," she quietly told him.

  "Nagha'uwch!" came Deviar's call, echoing through the staff quarters like a gong.  _Report_ , it meant, and they moved to obey it.

  "What do you think, Castillo?" Mika asked.  "Think it's about what happened when _she_ came in here?"

  Dacey watched Castillo shrug and shake his head, and she thought about what Ferro had told her about yesterday, about the "Consort Tasia" coming into the barracks without pass or warning to see Yang, what she had said and what the general's reaction had been.  Castillo had already passed off the event--or at least Castillo seemed to have made every effort to ostensibly pass it off.  Likely, he was simply unwilling to guess anymore at the general's intentions, which he felt served the general alone in the end, and he continued to seethe inside about the woman he'd so admired.  For her part, Dacey didn't dare judge.  Not anymore.

  In a slow trickle, they shuffled out of the barracks and court, through the gate and into the mall.  Innivra and Dacey brought up the rear with Yang and were content to stay there until the house steward Kimolg, tall and stone-faced, pressed into the throng and brought the Starfleet block forward.  Glancing around at the other Romulan tevol'oc as they passed through to the front, Dacey could see they too had little clue about what was going on.

  They soon learned.  
 

  "What shall you choose now, Jovvok?"

  "Death."

  "You would rather avoid the dishonor with which you must now live?"

  "Yes, General."

  "You may not have it by my hand.  _Any_ death you enjoy shall be that of a coward."

  The blood that sprayed from Jovvok's face a moment later dropped but a meter from their feet.

  Already directed to stand in front and center, their block was now "honored" to witness Jovvok's disgrace at the quick and unforgiving hand of General Tokarel, all bestowed before Jovvok's peers, betters and underlings alike.  Blow, by blow, the older man destroyed his officer then had him treated so he could take another session of pain and humiliation.  The beating was nothing less than ruthless and terrifying, and yet Dacey's heart fluttered with relief and satisfaction.

  Green freer flowing with every strike of the general's mallet of a hand, more blood flew from her torturer's face as he resisted showing his agony.  But Dacey could see it.  She knew he felt his pain and shame as she stared, unblinking until her eyes grew tears to relieve the dryness. 

  She knew it because she knew her own.  She would always know her own.

  She knew that what was done to her was forever etched into her soul.  Jovvok had inflicted the desired damage.  He'd exacted his revenge for her disrespect as best he could by forcing the young tevol'oc to repeatedly submit to her punishment.  He didn't get away with what he did to Yang, though, thanks to "Castillo's acquaintance," her good timing and influence with the general. 

  Peering over at the lady now called Tasia, elegant even while heavily with child, Dacey noted her fellow human's response to the man's receipt of justice and felt her back straighten to watch Tasia's eyes glint with gruesome satisfaction.

  Dacey _was_ a little stung that it had to be Yang to get special treatment when she'd been suffering under Jovvok directly for fifty-three days, but then, she'd never have traded places with her fellow junior officer.  Jovvok had at least the foresight to heal her wounds immediately and well.  Yang could have died--in fact, a less stout subject would indeed have perished in the time it took the general to learn about what had happened.  Kivos also told her that had the rat bitten him on a vein, he would have died within an hour and in agony.  The safety procedures, special gloves and ready anti-venom were there for good reason.  While his current treatment was excellent and successful, they were told that because of the lateness of treatment, Yang would never possess the same strength he had brought to Romulus.  Indeed, Dacey felt very sad for him, even if he _was_ an ass.

  No one knew about Dacey's experience in the roosts save herself, Jovvok and, to a small degree, Hajat.  If no one knew what the centurion had done to her, she had to wonder who else might have suffered under his hand, who else might be feeling vindicated just then.  Dacey was not surprised by her need for it despite its gruesomeness, and she was mildly comforted in her newfound respect for Tokarel and his brave and brutal means of inspiring loyalty.  Taking down the son of a friend surely could not be easy even for a Romulan, and yet he did it for the sake of his slave woman and the promise he'd made to protect her people, and to prevent any other officers from getting ideas of their own.  He could easily have had Jovvok transferred somewhere else, but the general knew that it would not solve the problem.

  Not that she would choose to bring ruin to a man rather than teach him a right way, but Romulans abhorred imperfection and nipped disloyalty and defect in the bud, even at the sacrifice of an otherwise excellent officer.  It did make for an effective military.

  As she thought about this, her gaze drifted aside and caught Castillo's reaction to the proceedings.  His eyes remained pinned to the consort, hard but wide, almost asking her to walk over to their side.  Dacey had long watched him looking at the woman like that; she had long had suffered comparisons to the martyr, and often wondered to whom it was less fair.

  Dacey's eyes snapped back to the mall when Jovvok's semi-healed and writhing body was hauled up from the pebbles.  His eyes were bulging and face suffused in a greenish sallow.  The neck cuff was doing most of the work, now.  Tokarel stepped into view again.  He had wiped his hands on a cloth Kimolg had handed him and now was calmly buttoning his coat.

  "The word of your leader is your honor," he proclaimed, just loud enough to make his voice echo, "and _our_ honor is all of the Empire's.  When you obey my word, you obey the will of the Romulan Star Empire. 

  "My words are your guide, in life and to the death.  Your _life_ is _mine_ ; I give your commands and you honor _me_ when you agree to serve me, and thus serve the Empire.  I will tolerate no deviations from this and my stated purpose for any reason.  In your disgrace, Jovvok, son of Sarrog, I hereby strip you of rank and privilege; you hereby are a listed tevol'oc, assigned to gate attendance, where you will watch from your knees your former comrades enjoy their freedom for having been dutiful to my wishes.  A single incident and I will repeat your punishment today in the Capital on the Senate steps before all your instructors and relations."

  Gasps sounded around the other tevol'oc, and Dacey's heart quickened.  That was a devastating threat, and perhaps the general was a man of honor, after all.  It was probably nothing at all about Yang, but all about Tokarel maintaining the value of his word, his pride, and the assurance of his control of his people and property.

  What great power that must afford!  Dacey envied Tokarel, who had worked tirelessly, probably, to build that fortress in his life in such a way that he could speak for the whole of the Romulan Empire as he had--or believe he could.  Certainly, he could do so on his property before all whom he claimed as his own, as would a warrior duke of old, brutally empowered but utterly loyal to his king.  Such great responsibility and equal personal reward must be incredibly satisfying, Dacey imagined, particularly just then, when she had little to none of that feeling of security and self-assurance.

  On the other end, watching the disgraced man, not terribly older than she was physically, hanging from the cuff and hearing his sentence, she felt a shard of pity, too.  As a human, perhaps she must to have a soul.  Still, she did not fool herself into thinking that Jovvok had not richly earned his disgrace.  It was simply a shame it had to be like that, when he once had it all. 

  In turn, Dacey Kerr had gained an acute appreciation of what she had, even if it was very little...and growing less by the day.

* * *

 

  "Sharrit v'vosvk oh shii frark ild..."

  They wouldn't stop, the squawking, the screaming and the fluttering.

  "Marshi glaw i gosk..."

  Eighty-five days she'd been tending the roosts.  Their screaming followed her, their attacking beaks and wild eyes, tearing, devouring...  How long would they be there?  How long would they tear at her mind?

  "Shii frark...  Lagk mosk..."

  She shuddered, and then continued...  Then she paused again, her hand in mid-air as a hiss rang out from the cage.  She glanced at the crussu and froze.  Its beak was poised open, ready to strike.

  She remembered the strikes....the pulls...tearing...

  "Stop!" she cried to herself as she pulled her hand back and tight against her ribs.  Then she breathed, many breaths, deeply, forcing herself to remember, too, that it wasn't going to happen again.

  She heard his laugher...and the screams of victory when they tore through her flesh...

  " _Stop._    Stop _now_."

  She sucked another deep breath and forced herself to continue with her work.  The shift would grow no more productive if she let the demons get the better of her.  She had to keep her wits.  She had to keep her wits....

  She had to keep her wits together in that cell of gray crussu birds and the constant rolls of eggs.  A scream, a squawk, a hiss and a roll...tumble, tumble, thud.  Two meters away, they still fought her when she gathered the small, yellow rounds, carried them across and inspected them for imperfections, then set them in the transport trays.  Her gloves remained well wrapped to her wrists, her goggles tightly in place, but their angry faces followed her, along with their incessant screaming and fluttering, their desire for her destruction for simply being.  She still flinched when they came for her, even with a thick cage and locks between them.

  Cages could open.  Locks could fail.

  She knew what happened when no bars separated them.  She felt the tearing...screaming, eating her alive...  She would remember it for a lifetime.

  She never looked toward the back roosts.  Never.

  She visually checked the latches.  She already had a few times that morning.  Mistakes could happen.  Negligence was possible.

  Over and over and over...  Turn, turn, a blemish.  Barracks supply.  Over, over… Over a season now and the screaming wouldn't stop...

  "Stop it now," she whispered, her voice quavering.  "Stop it now."

  It was not proving to be a good day. 

  Some were well enough, and some were tolerable, or at least recoverable.  But others, the loud days when she'd not slept enough after tending to Yang's hyposprays, or just hadn't slept, period, for all that met her there, were blurs of a continuing horror from which she could not distract herself.  Jovvok had been gone for twenty-four days, and yet each day since his removal enjoyed scant improvement aside from his absence from them.  Why, she could not tell.  She had not the mind to figure out.  She was too busy trying to get from one of those days to the next, hoping the next shift would be better while trying always to push the visions of devouring crussu from her head.  And sometimes she'd think herself successful and starting to be over it...until she returned to that duty, and heard the screams, and felt...

  Over and over...  A hiss...

  "Hasshir ir farr yblalla...  Nahgh ov...  Naho...  Never..."

  He made her see the result of her disgrace.  Screaming...

  She hardly knew she had slumped into the corner with her bag in her hands, clutched against her chest, when Badock came in.  She knew the eggs were piling up again, and she felt her tears in her flinching eyes when she looked at the farm steward who had sent her to that duty in an apparent effort at mercy. 

  _Mercy...._

  _"The mercy I show you would astonish many who would rather enjoy watching you bleed to death, Farm Slave...."_

  Her heart chilled and her limbs grew numb, even as she said, "How may I serve you with honor, Farm Steward?"

  Hearing the words echo back into her ears, and the screams of the crussu answer, she shuddered and shrank.

  Badock's stare furrowed into a look of horror.  "Dacey, you are unwell."

  "Has the shift ended?" she asked roughly.  Suddenly she couldn't imagine how long she had been there.

  "It has only begun.  There are still four shuti before midshift."  Badock got to a knee.  "Why do you sit on the floor?"

  She drew a quick breath to respond, but it froze in her.  After several moments where mind seemed little more than an empty, black chasm, the truth suddenly spun up and poured from her lips.  "I do not know.  I do not remember sitting.  Forgive my negligence, Badock."  Jerking herself out of the crevice, she staggered forward on her knees and made up for the pile she'd allowed.  Her hands shook as the birds admonished her.  Yes, Jovvok was gone, but the screams and those hideous beaks never would.  Some of them knew her scent and cried out for another morsel...

  Never forgetting.

  His laughter, his hateful eyes and his grasp on her hair as he forced her...

  She dropped an egg and scrambled to grab it and set it into place.  Turn, turn, turn...  Her eyes flew over the eggs.  Its shape and feel was good.  Its color was acceptable.  No cracks, no blemishes.  House tray.

  She felt Badock watching her, so she completed the round, forcing herself to be quick and thorough.  She could not dishonor her duty and land herself in another round of punishment.  That would not be acceptable.  It would not be survivable.  She had to honor her duty.

  At last, she set the set of eggs into the stasis.  When she closed the seal and took out another bag with trembling hands, he said, "Your fluency in Romulan may be a means of a new assignment."

  Looking around at him, her bleary stare sparked with a blink.  "How?"

  "Go to the barracks, wash and dress in your spare clothing, then come back to the assignment office.  Wait there for my signal.  I will have Morib assign another tevol'oc to complete this shift."

  "I would not wish this duty on your people's most vicious criminal," she said, wondering even as the words passed her lips why she would jeopardize her chance to get out of there.

  But Badock seemed to understand.  He said, "Not all possess as sensitive of nerve as you, Dacey.  Do as I command."

  She bowed her head.  "I obey you, Badock," she responded.  Hanging the bag on the hook with the others, she gave him another salute and put the room and its screaming occupants behind her.  Moving down the corridor, silence soon enveloped her and her entire body relaxed, so suddenly that instead of relief, lethargy replaced the tension, a wash of cool exhaustion.  Her breath shortened and her shoulders fell.  Then she shivered.  She pulled her hood strings, tightening her robe around her neck.

  Stepping up to the portico, her thin feet brushed over the cement.  At the crossing to the barracks path, she paused and bowed to allow a trio of guards to pass.  Not a muscle in her moved until they had fully passed her by and had not looked back.  Then she started towards the court, pulling her hood further over her head, crossing her hands within her heavy sleeves so that they would not be seen.  Her fingers pressed against her forearms, stilling the digits.  They still hurt a little sometimes.  Her eyes stayed on the walk.

  Coming into the barracks, she slowed, and she could practically feel her sleep come blessedly over her if she should only touch a bunk...

  Badock.  Shower.  Dress.  Assignment office.

  Dacey pushed ahead and around the section to her block's bunkroom.  Yang and Innivra were not there, she noticed first, but on light duty in the mess.  So, without distraction, she grabbed the folded mat of clothes from the center table, changes that were supplied twice daily.  She would have to request another set if she dirtied those.

  _No, you will be careful not to dirty this set,_ she told herself and pressed herself into what she needed to do.

  Inspecting the label to be certain they were her size, she dropped the clothes on the bench then untied and slid off the soiled set.  Depositing it in the chute, she touched the shower control a moment before throwing her hands against the wall.  The ten second burst of hot air and sound waves flew over her, loud in the empty shower but decidedly welcome.  The hot air that came with it always left her chilled afterward, but she was beyond complaining.  She was clean and she wasn't in the roosts, where...

  _"Farm Slave will show me the crussu mating roosts,"_ came his voice, and she jerked to grab the tube from the cleaning kit.  She squirted the feer oil on her hands and rubbed it vigorously on her face, breathing its fine aroma.  She didn't know if the medicinal properties the Romulans swore was in the stuff were real, but she did like the smell and the feel of it.  She inhaled it deeply several times before jerking herself back to what she needed to do next: Dress.

  Feeling at least presentable in the loose trousers, long, wrap tunic and hooded cloak of the common tevol'oc, Dacey made her way out of the block and into the corridor that would take her to Badock's office.  Her sandals shuffled on the floor, much as they did when she'd been going to the roosts, before opening the hatch to the roar of crussu and the thunks of those eggs, and the screams and flutters...

  "Hanesh, badu, mir, chrat, giir..." she said to herself, counting in ancient Andorian, which she had never quite caught on to, but continued to try for.  Easily translatable by mechanical means, it was a beautiful tongue, and its poetry was magical.  She had heard it at a seminar and immediately knew she should distract herself even more.  She dove into it, even taking it on her honeymoon.  Thankfully, Dennis knew she was essentially a selfish little creature who must serve her active mind.  He laughed at her and got her tipsy, then they made love on the balcony of the little place where they stayed, her PADDs on the floor by sofa.

  "God, shall I ever see him again?" she whispered, fighting back the tears that sprung up, seeing the painfully green grass and the rugged stone house, and Dennis standing in front with her parents and brother, waving at her to come home, to come in and get some stew and hot cider.  Dennis probably thought her dead.  All their hearts had to have been broken by now, by her, that dunderhead of a girl and her foolish ideas, dead at Narendra, just twenty-three....  And they turned and went into the house, and Dennis walked away, out of the garden and down the field until he could not be seen...

  She blew a breath and got back on track.  "Yassh, mirgi, towa, gashet..."

  The screams remained behind the diversions, but the diversions remained effective enough to quiet them.  Her growing curiosity about Badock's idea for her was beginning to help, too.

  Thankfully, that tactic did not have time to grow old before another set of thoughts could replace it.  She got to Badock's cubicle within a few minutes and lowered herself onto the metal bench outside his door.  In the next office, probably Renas', a political program was playing over the comm.  Dacey listened to it for a while, but growing bored with the platitudes, she focused instead on the dialect.  It was Jikraahk, but not spoken by someone from the capital.  Were people native to the capital region listening, they were probably snickering despite the respect in the speaker's tone.

  "Report," echoed out of Badock's office.  Dacey sprang to her feet.

  "I obey you, Badock," she returned and jumped to her feet to enter the cubicle.  Stumbling a bit to a stop, she met his usually straight stare with a bow of her head.  Then she saw a tall, dark woman with perfectly spiked eyebrows, a pronounced brow ridge and a small mouth turned appropriately down to examine the mess of a tevol'oc who had all but thrown herself through the door.

  "This is Linnag from the compound house.  She is Dradar's primary servant," Badock told her.  "Dradar is expecting you and will judge if you are fit to serve her household, lest you return to the roosts."

  Seeing the woman's obvious disgust, Dacey suddenly wondered what pen she had been herded into that time.  She turned her eyes to Badock, silently asking.

  "I would have you succeed," he said and waved her off to follow Linnag, who turned to lead the way the moment his sentence was completed.

  "You will follow me and obey, Farm Slave," said Linnag without a chance of maybe as they rounded the outer corridor and cut through to the outer door.  "What are you called among your block?"

  "Dacey."

  "Only Dacey?  Were you not a worker on the ship claimed by the Romulan Empire?"

  "There?  Formally, I was called Ensign Dacey Kerr."

  Linnag draw a small PADD from her cloak pocket and scribbled for a few seconds with its stylus.  "You are most fortunate Badock is a sentimental fool as well as a dutiful khurr'oc," she stated, her pace unaltered as she worked.  "Your general personal address is Dacey, and your native world is Earth.  Your dialect?"

  "The general dialect is referred to as 'Standard.' I speak it with minimal dialectal liberty."

  Linnag continued writing.  "Stan-deard."

  "Yes ma'am," Dacey responded in that very tongue and immediately cursed herself for the slip.  Emidas had already informed her that the address was not to be used.

  The injury was already done, however.  "I am _not_ called madam," Linnag responded.  "Madam is reserved for the lowborn consort, hardly deserving of rank.  When not using my name, you will honor me with _my_ title, Primary Servant.  Now, Dradar will honor us with her time and patience as she assesses you.  Do not speak unless invited."

  Dacey got behind the other woman.  "And what, may I ask, Primary Servant Linnag, do I call Dradar?"

  Linnag turned a tired look behind her to what had to be in her eyes an incredibly ugly, clumsy human woman.  "Dradar," she replied.  Reaching out, she touched the access bar with her wrist cuff then showed it to the waiting guard.  They passed through the fence gate and into the mall.  "A person of rank stands alone with their name; only military personnel and persons of particular position are honored also with the title they have earned.  They need no further definition."

  Dacey filed that, biting down her awkwardness and tightly crossing her arms.  "I humbly ask you might forgive my error, Linnag," she said quickly.  "I serve with dedication and some education, but not with great experience.  Addresses are opposite among my kind.  Historically, people own basic titles: The higher the status, the more titles they hold.  'Madam' and 'sir' are considered polite addresses; mechanically, they translate badly."

  "As do most things to the Romulan tongue," Linnag replied dryly.

  "I have improved at your great language and have learned the local dialect, but our exposure to your vast culture has been limited to the barracks.  I knew the error but not the reason for it until you shared your wisdom.  I am most grateful for your generous instruction."

  That time, Linnag seemed to soften a little.  Dacey had learned the power of exceeding manners and sincerely put compliments among Romulans--most of them, anyway--who never managed to tire of receiving them.  As they came to the middle of the mall, she nodded and gestured Dacey to walk nearly beside her.  "Your group has been kept isolated.  If you are accepted by Dradar, I and Ivador will assist you in knowing better the Romulan way, with which you would live entirely."

  "I will learn it willingly," Dacey said sincerely.  Nervous as she was, frightened at every turned as she now knew she should be, she did want to ease her insecurity and improve their situation if she could.  Thankfully, her busy, well-educated mind welcomed the idea of an established trade after a season of forcing herself to remain mentally in tact, and the community she had begun to enjoy at the morning chant had endeared her to the Romulans there and helped her fluency among them.  While not the warriors their betters must be, the tevol'ocs' community, strength, complete self-assurance and sense of place and order had bolstered her.

  They crossed the sunny mall in little time before entering a surprisingly temperate house with shiny brown marble floors and warmly lit niches.  Depositing Dacey's cloak in a low closet, Linnag led Dacey down the main corridor to an elegantly linear sitting room.  Beams of artificial light streamed in through long windows on one side like a shower of white gold.  On the far end sat a comfortable olive chair; the formidable lady named Dradar was nestled within it, her slender arms resting on each well-padded side.  Coming around it with Linnag and taking her first close look at the lady she would serve, Dacey felt her breath catch.

  She had no clue what other Romulans might think about the general's younger sister, but in her human eyes, Dacey found Dradar exceedingly beautiful.  Her fine bone structure and excellent posture holding her long frame, her shiny black hair pulled back into a high, tucked tail with braided loops pinned at each side of her olive-toned face, her pleasant mouth and clever brown eyes doe-lined with sable:  Everything about Dradar spoke of something lovely to Dacey, perhaps for being everything Dacey _wasn't_.  For all she knew, Romulans might consider Dradar either frumpy or outlandish, in her long, gold silk tunic and stockings, tailored to perfection and decorated with geometric stitches of orange and green.  Dacey couldn't help but stare at her in admiration.

  When she had finished giving Dacey a look-over, she said, cultured and terribly quiet, "Ah, this is the one Badock has praised and was sent for.  Yes, her looks will do, with some correction.  She certainly has been long on the farm."

  Dacey swallowed her first response.

  Dradar's lips tuned up.  "Feel at ease," she told her gently and gestured before her with a perfect hand.  A smooth, green stone ring on her finger glinted in the suspended light.  Dacey's eyes followed the stone as the lady's hand floated back to her lap.  "Please.  Sit."

  "I serve you, Dradar."  Glancing behind her, she lowered herself toward the seat that was there.  Immediately she felt a claw snatch her up by the shoulder, drag her away from the chair and set her onto the wooden stool beside it.  "Aye!" Dacey squealed, reddening to scarlet as her heart rabbited in her chest.  Tears stung her eyes but otherwise held their stay as she looked up to Dradar's unchanged expression.  "Oh, ma'am--Dradar, I mean--I...I didn't know..." she stammered, falling out of her assumed tongue, and realizing that, too.  "Devil take me straight to hell."

  That and her following slump managed to turn Dradar's lips further upwards.  "Your kind has such interesting expressions.  My brother enjoys them exceedingly."  She waved off Linnag to stand another pace away, then continued, "And I am well aware of your difficulties.  These will be eased with time, when you accustom yourself to the stability the General's household provides and are more finely trained.  Plainly, you have received no training to date."

  _None that you know of,_ Dacey mused grimly, subsequently pushing down the hisses that followed.  She drew a fresh breath and forced herself to hold the other woman's gaze.  "May I ask how I will serve, Dradar?"

  "You will be a lower servant in the household," said the lady simply.  "Do not be alarmed.  You will learn what that entails from your immediate superior, with assistance from Linnag as deemed suitable."

  Dacey nodded then said, "Very well.  --I mean, thank you, Dradar."

  Dradar's brow twitched.  "Thank me?  Why should you thank me for duty you are entitled to perform at my or my brother's command?"

  Dacey shuddered, hating herself all the more, now.  The watchful mistress and her hawkish servant made her an easy enough target without her screwing up every address and protocol that had been driven so relentlessly into her.  Badock truly had not found her on a good day, and bearing through those new and uncertain surroundings was doing little to improve her.  Still, the lady had asked her a question, and nicely.  Dacey thought quickly then said, "I thank you for giving me the opportunity to be transferred from my duty in the roosts," she said, revising herself again to Rul'siat Romulan.  "With your great patience, Dradar, I felt I would have gone mad had Badock not come for me."

  And then she wondered what madness made her admit to it.

  Dradar blinked.  "I see.  Well, we could not have that.  You are of no use to us mad; for that matter, you would become far too difficult to maintain."  Dradar gave Linnag a nod then addressed Dacey once more.  "I give you leave to farewell your block then return to the mall, at which time you will be brought to new quarters for the onset of your training."

  Still staring at the beautiful woman before her, she realized that she had been dismissed.  _It's done?_

  Dacey felt a tap on her shoulder.  "Up, tevol'oc," Linnag ordered.

  Apparently, it was.

  Getting to her feet, Dacey bowed her head deeply and backed up.  "I obey you, Dradar."

  She could not feel her feet as they led her back through the house and into the dark day, and she barely felt the cold, now, too, for the cloud growing over her with every second on consideration rendered her senses dumb.

  Indeed, it sounded well enough at first--a stable place, a comfortable assignment.

  Her boots hit the pebbled mall.

  An easy duty...like the roosts, where she learned her duty well.  Where day after day, she was shown how to obey honorably.

  _"You neglect your duty, Farm Slave."_

  _"It...  It would be most...appreciated if you would show me how to rectify that, Centurion Jovvok."_

  A stiff wind hit her face.  She stumbled.

  She saw Dradar's well-placed room and the shiny stone floors, and Dradar herself so straightly set in her place, knowing.  She felt a chill at the echo each soft step left in the towering corridor as they passed through it.  And she would be trained--trained into the household where all who went to serve there were not seen again.

  _"You hesitate."_

  _"I try to find proper words."_

  _"And now you try to excuse yourself when it is not your right.  --It is_ not _your right."_

  _"Yes, it...  It is not my right to excuse myself."_

  Sealed in a shell, always watched, always quiet.  She had grown far quieter of late, but in that house, among those high-ranked Romulan people that she didn't know, Linnag would make Jovvok look like a primary teacher.  Dacey would be entirely under her control--and Linnag would be justified in any methods of correction.

  _"You hesitate!"_

  _"Yes, I hesitate, Centurion Jovvok.  With honor, I would have your instruction!"_

  She shuddered.  She now imagined herself in the reality facing her, having to live as servant to that sly and particular Romulan, two levels under the vulture Linnag.  She would be flying from a cacophony of demon birds to a living, breathing death under her claws.

  _"You will thank me for this, Farm Slave.  --Show your gratitude for my wisdom!"_

  _"I will...take...more...correction....  Please."_

  _"Address me properly!"_

  _"I will take...more correction...please...Centurion Jovvok."_

  _"Kneel."_

  When she pulled a shaky breath and closed her eyes, she saw Linnag thrusting her head into the cage.

  Dacey broke into a run.  Scrambling across the mall and through the gate, she tore around the barracks and into the building rows.  Her heart hammering through her ribs, she flung herself into the loading plant and found Castillo. 

  "You cannot let them send me over there, sir!" she cried, instantly snatching his attention from his work.  Panting, she implored him with her eyes, then told him, "They want to send me to the main house!"

  "Yeah, Badock told me about his plans," Castillo replied.  Wiping his hands on his tunic, he crossed his arms.

  Dacey almost sobbed at the easily put admission.  "And you _let_ him do it?"

  "I didn't have a choice in the matter."

  "They're sending me to serve on the _house staff_!" she pressed.  "Under the _general's sister_!"

  Castillo's reply was plain.  "And your problem is?"

  "My problem?  You fool!"  She coughed and shook her head, utterly frustrated with him now.  Didn't he see the problem?  Couldn't he even _try_ to see?  He knew how she was.  He knew she could jeopardize their place.  "You know I'll never get on there!  They don't _talk_ \--not like people.  The house is like the bottom of the ocean."

  "At least you have hells to choose from," Adamson rejoined. 

  She hadn't even noticed him there until he spoke, and immediately, his ignorance cut her.  "I didn't ask for your commentary!"

  "Enough, both of you," Castillo ordered and again gave her his attention.  "Why are you coming to me again?  Badock told me you needed to get out of the roosts and so he came up with a duty that you can handle for a change.  It wasn't anything I got to make a decision about.  He just gave me a heads up."

  "I cannot go to that place, sir, and live like a person."  Her heart was racing now, threatening her quaking knees.  "I'm already off the hinge here.  I'm sure to--"

  "Considering what Tasha's gone through, you have no right to complain."

  "Don't you dare compare me to her!" Dacey retorted.  "This has got nothing to do with _the consort_ , but that I can't do what I _wasn't trained to do_ and have _never been_ and make it work!  I cannot go back to--"

  "You'll do what they _tell_ you to do and you'll get used to it!" he barked, his face suffusing.  "Time after time, Dacey, we've had to make up for your failings.  Time after time, you've come after me with nothing but complaints!  You seem to forget, Ensign, that we're here, too!  And we've gotten by because we figured out that we have something more important to think about, like _surviving_ this place!  If you're too miserable to live, don't take the rest of us down with you.  I don't have room for your crap anymore, and I'll tell Badock that, too, if I have to."

  At that, she shrank, and her senses came back to her.  Grimy, sweaty and bad tempered for it plus some, Castillo's glare bore into her.  Indeed, he did know what she could and should do.  And she suddenly wondered why she'd bothered interrupting them and begging for a way out when she'd only been instructed to say goodbye.  He _couldn't_ do anything about it, and yet like a weak and desperate fool, she'd tried to think that he was something she could beg to--and she did even that in the wrong way.  Moreover, he was right--terribly right.

  "I just..." she said, her shaky breaths coming more slowly now that mortification had set in.  "Thinking about serving there terrifies me."  Hearing Adamson groan, she fought back her tears to know how right he was, too.  She knew how tedious and frustrating she was, how cowardly and disrespectful.  She could have cost them all their lives; instead, Jovvok found her and provided her with the needed reeducation.  And indeed, she had learned.  She had learned a dire lesson.  Still, desperate, she had come Castillo to ask for help.  But of course he could not--and now that lesson, as well, would not need to be repeated.  Her last useless plea came weakly forth:  "Dradar seems fine enough, but I can tell she's the sort who sees _everything._ I amused her today, and sure, I'll be glad never to see an egg again in my life, but this...  It's so direct to the source.  I'll end up right at the place that got me there."

  Castillo shrugged.  "Try not to."  With that, he turned his back to his work.  "A little help, please?"

  With that, the world around her resumed.  Her lessons were now irrevocably reinforced.  Her honor and her duty, were _her own_ , and only she could be responsible for herself, upon the desire of her superiors.  Pride was not for her to own, but permitted.  Service was her right, and it was not for her to choose it.  He was the devil, but he was correct.  Jovvok had been correct all along.

  Dacey took a step back as they finished loading the seed--finished with her, too, as they moved on to the next flat.  Even Parker was hardly looking at her.  It was over..  "Best I go, then," she muttered and turned away, quickly spotting the quickest way out.

  Before she could get out of the plant, though, she felt a hand tap her shoulder.  Reflexively, she stiffened, but then looked back and saw Mika staring sympathetically at her.  She gestured to take her hands, but Mika laughed and shook her head. 

  "I'd better not," she said, holding up her orange fingers.  Instead, she offered her most assured gaze and said, "You'll do fine, Dacey.  Keep your chin up, and take care."

  Dacey nodded, but unable to hold back, she turned and embraced her former superior, shurrat stained hands and all.  She shouldn't soil that second set of clothes, she knew, but for the moment, it didn't matter to her.  She needed that security and support, so much she had been without it, and would certainly be without it soon.

  Indeed, she would miss her comrade, who had grabbed her by her good arm and dragged her out from the stools in the wrecked astrometrics lab, and then led her through the corridors to deck one and onto the bridge.  She had saved their lives.  But that was the last of a long line of good Mika had done for her.  Mika had been the one to show her the ropes on the Enterprise, show her the shortcuts, how to get what she needed and manage what she had, and she had extricated Dacey from the trouble she seemed so prone to get into and explained her errors to her like a person.  The lieutenant was not only her superior, but also a touchstone for her naturally high-pitched energy and a true example of what to aim for.  She had been a friend.

  How silly it all seemed, now.  All that effort and training, schooling and discipline, and all those friendships, reduced to eggs, errands and buttons--and fear.  Such a deep, unrelenting fear, stuck to her very bones...

  In the other room, she heard them loading the last of the sacks onto the transport, relaxed again into a little conversation.  Before her, Mika had released her and again smiled kindly at her, tacitly telling her:  She too would have to return to her duty, to Sharesh and Ferro in the packing plant.

  Those groups still stood together, a team, a crew.  Dacey had already begun to accept that she could no longer relate to those people--another assist from Jovvok that would not see relief with a physical separation adding to it.  She almost wished she were sorry, but she wasn't.

  And then she thought that she should carry the weight a little for a change rather than _be_ the weight, be known for her honor in her duty rather than the source of correction, even if it meant giving herself without hesitation to that foreboding house, so close to the people who had decided their fate.  Even if meant giving herself to a wholly new education and relinquishing all she had held to so fiercely.

  She would deliver herself into their hands.

  Lesson learned.

  "I promise I'll do all I can to make it right," she responded at last, rough but certain.  "Tell Castillo so, when you can.  Tell him...I'll obey."

* * *

 

  Not ten minutes later, a servant came for her in the mall.  Her expression was at first serious, but then Dacey imagined an exotic softness about her. She knew why she did as the woman neared, for she recognized her as the consort's personal servant. She had been pointed out to Dacey soon after she had started in the roosts. _"A Romulan as alien to the Homeworld as the consort,"_ Shurrol had commented while they watched her follow the consort to the garden.  _"Even her name places her as a Kiarrgor native. They are a...unique variety, though to my knowledge suitable Romulans."_   The closer a look Dacey got of her, seeing the relative creaminess of her skin color and brown hair, her dark, soulful eyes and straight but pleasant mouth, the more she believed him. 

  Though, there could be no denying her place:  Wherever she was from, and whatever she was like, she looked as steady and efficient about her duty as any of the household staff that Dacey had seen. Her heavy, dark green cloak barely lifted despite her smooth, swift gait and the steady wind, and the moment she was near enough, she took Dacey's gloved fingers into her own.  Even through the rough fabric, the woman's temperature was noticeable.  "I am Ivador and meet you well this day," she said, her easy, dulcet tone verifying Shurrol in full.  "I will take you to be readied, Dacey."

  "I thought I had been," Dacey said, diverted from both her interest and manners by a rush of discomfort.  She never imagined Romulans as the handholding sort, and the feel of a Romulan's hot hand had come to repulse her.  "Did I receive the wrong clothes?"

  "You require grooming and a house uniform.  Have no concern, Dacey.  I will train you well, and the consort is extremely patient."

  Dacey blinked when she translated that in her head a second time.  Ivador was speaking the Rul'siat dialect with a decided inflection, but Dacey was not so unfamiliar with the various accents around the farm that she felt she had mistaken the translation.  "The consort?  You mean the--the one called Tasia?  I am to serve _her_?"

  "Why, yes.  Whom did you think you would serve?  Dradar?"

  Dacey almost didn't want to admit it, seeing the amusement on the other woman's face. 

  Ivador let her off the hook easily enough.  "Only the most experienced can serve a woman of Dradar's rank," she explained as she led them around the main house to a narrow walkway, "and rarely would a tevol'oc serve her directly."

  "Yes."  Dacey bent her head.  _Not even in the house and I've proved I'm an idiot,_ she thought glumly.  _Not even my own people would argue that._

  The path opened up onto a large courtyard, sided at the rear by one end of the garden, and otherwise surrounded by pale olive conifers and low, scrubby bushes from which small, long-furred animals stole bright blue berries then scurried away.  Dacey had never seen the like in the barracks.  A few stone benches dotted the far side of the court, where a man of short stature was shaking out a pile of small rugs and laying them in a cart.  Turning, Dacey was faced by the broad backside of the house, an enormous brown stone seeming to have grown directly from the earth.  Her chest tightened, but a gentle squeeze of her hand got her going again.  Nodding, she continued with Ivador.

  At the middle of the rear of the house, they descended a short flight of steps and entered through a secure door Ivador accessed with a chip from her belt chain.  From that passage, they moved into an atrium.  It was relatively warm and humid there, and she gladly she dropped her cloak and gloves in a bin at Ivador's direction.  Taking her novice's hand once again, now with a hand that was both very warm and smooth as silk, she brought Dacey past the kitchen area. 

  Down a few steps and around a semicircle passage, they came to a square hall with a round, meter-deep sandstone pool and a great skylight above it.  They crossed that room to enter a series of interconnected chambers.  Letting go of Dacey only a few meters in, she gestured to the simple bunk and surrounding shelves and drawers.  A pullout secretary and a stool sat to one side.  Devoid of a stationary console, instead there was a tablet, a stylus and a storage bin.  A few tablet books--correct books, to be certain--sat neatly on the next shelf.

  "This is your berth," Ivador informed her.  "When you are not serving or engaged in other duties, your isolation remains here.  You may pull the curtain at the side of the bed for privacy during your sleeping time, but it must be left open during all other hours."  She picked up a hamper of clothing that had been left in front of the bunk.  "You have ten changes of clothing, four each for the winter and summer seasons, a formal uniform and a traveling frock.  There are also matching headgear and footwear.  Do not wear alternating colors or styles."

  Dacey was surprised.  Though the rooms did join all around that bath, which she suspected was public, her little space was relatively private and looked somewhat comfortable.  The regular outfits, exclusively in shades of amber or olive, were plain but soft, a far cry from the heavy cloth farm workers necessarily wore.  The formal tunic and tights were lovely shades of blue-grey and appeared to be a kind of silk.  For that alone, one might desire a place amongst the house staff.

  "It is two tivvuh past tintren in the Schedule.  The consort enjoys her second isolation now and will take her daily walk later.  I will finish your preparation now then alert her to meet you.  --Or had you known each other before?"

  "No.  We had not met.  She was a guest on my ship...the Starfleet ship."

  "Very well then," Ivador nodded, looping her wrist in the handle of the hamper then reclaiming Dacey's hand to lead them out of the bunk area.  "We will start with your fingers."

  One shuti later, Dacey had changed her clothing and was presented with a few additional surprises.  Ivador gave her an excellent manicure, removing the shurrat stains and dry skin from her nails and hands with a laser wand then buffing her short nails until they shone like frosted glass.  Meanwhile, she impressed Dacey at every step to watch and learn how she was performing each procedure.  Afterward, she treated Dacey's hair with an oil to help pin it down and pull it back into two small, tight braids looped at her jaws and captured at her nape by a thick claw clip.

  "You will learn to dress the consort's hair by watching my efforts and then learning by using me," Ivador informed her as they finished folding her clothes for the third time.  "You will, in fact, practice everything on me or on Linnag before being permitted into the consort's care.  Serving her needs will be your sole concern and singular point of training.  Throughout your waking time, you will follow me and watch all I do, eat with me or with the consort and myself and train in associated functions in the laundry and here while she sleeps.  You will sleep during her third isolation, and your day will start with her preparation for her evening.  You will train with Linnag, Kimolg or in the family rooms during Consort's first isolation, while I sleep.  You will have two shifts of isolation, each one shuti, for study and self-review during your waking hours.  You will know and perform everything I do within the season, if you work hard and can follow the house Schedule."

  "I prefer to be busy," Dacey told her.  "It keeps my mind sharp."  _And not on other matters,_ she silently added.

  "Then we will have little difficulty in your reeducation," Ivador replied pleasantly.  A servant breezed through, then, carrying a slip of paper and a small jar.  Bowing to the servant, Ivador took the items and read the note.  Then she gave Dacey the jar.  "Apply this cream to your face," she said.  "Dradar has prescribed it."

  " _Dradar_ did?"

  "She said that you have been working too long in the elements."

  "Indeed," Dacey muttered.

  Once Ivador was satisfied with the result of her preliminary labors, she helped Dacey strap her boots properly then handed her a heavy cloak, which would go over her frock and head when she had to venture outside.  Like half of the everyday wear, the gear was olive green and bore a particular aroma, almost like basil.  "In these, we blend with nature," Ivador told her, "yellow in summer, grey-green in winter.  We want to disappear into our duties, as duty performed like nature is personal achievement, and duty performed silently, without notice, achieves honor in our rank.  I will be diligent, Dacey, in making this true for you."

  "Disappearing would be good," Dacey replied, surprised to know how much she meant that.  It brought her to pause, and she looked around at the common room where they had been working.  _My new situation,_ she remarked to herself, _my duty._

  The terrible dread had now settled into a numb pit in her gut, but she only stared back when Ivador reexamined her new pupil then pulled a small instrument from her case. 

  "Remain still," she instructed and waved the hand-sized bar over Dacey's arm.  With a blink of acknowledgement, she tapped a button then pressed the bar to Dacey's wrist.  Immediately feeling the pressure of an implant, Dacey blinked and instinctively jerked to pull away.  Ivador's quick grip stopped her.  "This is as much for your safety as for house security," she explained.  "Any staff, house or farm, who sees this will know you are being monitored and protected.  Should you travel outside the compound, any citizen will know your contractor's house."

  Dacey looked down at the small, brown crest printed on her wrist.  She could still feel the slight swelling from the invading apparatus.  "Is it permanent?"

  "It is easily removed.  Do you expect the need?"

  Dacey's shoulders fell, and she shook her head.  "No."  She pulled her sleeve neatly down.  "What will you have me do now?"  
 

  Deposited in the staff dining room for a solitary meal while Ivador left to take care of other business, Dacey afterward donned her cloak and walked out into the cold, dusky garden behind one of the general's staff, an odd little teenager called Lomik.  He was already en route to the farm bins that Sharesh and Ferro were probably filling and invited her to a small tour of the staff paths from the exit next to the house physician's office, around the back corner of the house and into the front rows of the garden. 

  "They say we are not seen here," Lomik told her, "but we are watched."

  "I would expect no less," Dacey replied.

  "You are not Romulan."

  "Unfortunately, yes."

  "Do you regret what you are?"

  "Only for that I must be here and not there."

  Lomik blinked, confused, but upon Dacey's dismissive gesture, he did not ask.

  Several rows deeper into the garden, just off a little pond, Lomik gestured to a place where she should sit.

  "Mogochar said that if you grow too cold and need to move," said Lomik, "you must not leave this court."

  "I will be well here," Dacey told him.  "The weather today is like my home province's winter."

  Lomik seemed mildly pleased with her statement, but left her without further conversation.

  Tolerant to cold or no, her comfort weakened as the shuti ticked away.  A breeze blew above, a flock of birds shifted from the fields to another place beyond the garden, and then the shift change alert sounded in the distance.  Her nerves piqued at the sound, having been trained to respond to it.  Second shift would bring her from the crussu…for a time.

  With silence resuming, she found herself itching to move but hesitant to find herself wandering or slipping into memories, those things that would find her in her sleep and inactivity on days when she had far more occupation.  She diverted herself with naming the trees and using different tongues to describe them, and then the grasses and pebbles, the colors and the smells, but that could go only so far.  The dim light and lack of stimuli soon began to play a reversal on her improvement. 

  That pre-dawn, she'd started at the roosts and had locked herself in the screaming pit.  She still didn't know how she'd slid down into the corner or how long she'd been there before Badock came for her, but she likened it now to an angel flying into hell to snatch up a misdirected wight.  Before she could comprehend what was happening, she was reassigned…again.

  She had to give the Romulans that, and be grateful for it:  When they made up their mind to do something, it was simply done.  She merely needed to let it come, like each of those long, dark days...that endless year.  It hadn't even been three-quarters of one yet on Romulus, but over one back home.

  _Over a year..._

  When that thought, too, had run its course--for there wasn't much it could do but simply _be_ \--and she felt the hisses and open beaks crawling up her nerves once again, Dacey breathed her relief to at last see a slender form in a gold and blue cloak slip between the trees and come into the garden's central mall.  _The consort._

  As she neared, Dacey could see within the hood the delicate gold chains stiffened into loops and pinned about her blonde hair, which had grown longer since the start of her stay in the house, styled in large, fashionable curls upon her shoulders.  Inside that frame was a fair face that, while still bearing a strong jaw and straight nose, had been softened by her new lifestyle and perhaps the recent pregnancy.  Her eyes, lined in bronze and colored from lid to brow with a blush, were a kind of green that responded to the colors around her and were strikingly clear.

  Turning and lowering herself to sit beside Dacey, she offered a small smile.  Dacey returned the same.  A heavy aroma of spice filled the space between them, and she could not help but breathe it before focusing on the subject before her.

  The lady now called Tasia seemed to be just that at first--a lady, elegant and reserved, and it would have been easy to leave it at that had Dacey been ignorant of what had preceded it.  Nothing of the woman's efficiency from the other ship remained; that ready practicality and ramrod-right purpose seemed to have been eradicated as well.  Only the well-tended shell remained, prettied and silent among those who had remade her.  Aside from the many reports of execution being quite painful on that world, Dacey wondered if "the guest" should have bothered with her sacrifice.

  Upon further examination, however, Dacey could tell there was a good deal going on beyond that facade, a steadiness in her stillness.  With stillness, perhaps, the consort could be more watchful, giving everything a full examination with that steady stare before arriving at a judgment, which would fit well among Romulans.  It was, in fact, Dacey's last impression of the woman, when they were in the cargo bay being divvied out by the Romulan officers. 

  She doubted her impression even less when Tasia spoke, her Rul'siat greeting quite soft and perfectly enunciated.  "The day meets us well."

  "The day is well met," Dacey replied politely.  "You honor me with your presence, Consort."

  "The honor is given freely."

  Dacey bowed her head respectfully.  "It is welcomed."

  "We'll speak freely for a while, if you'd prefer," Tasia continued in Earth Standard, which was intriguingly as precise as her Romulan was.  To Dacey's fine ear, the consort was either highly impressionable or Standard was equally alien to her.  "I'd like to get to know you a little better before we return to the house."

  "I'd like that as well," Dacey responded genuinely, though still curious about the consort's faint inflection.

  "I wouldn't wish any of you here, but I'm glad Dradar assigned you to the household staff, Dacey.  She thought you were 'curious' and 'smart.'"

  Dacey averted her eyes, thrown off her diversion with a reminder of that morning's interview.  "I can hardly believe that.  I was so nervous, I could have come out of my skin.  She had to think me a dishonorable wretch."

  "Dradar saw no dishonor in your behavior.  You wouldn't have been brought among the house staff if she'd had any doubt about your character."  Pausing, Tasia gazed deeply into Dacey's eyes.  A minute nod soon followed, a silent decision followed by a slight turn of her lips.  "It's good to meet you properly at last."

  Dacey breathed a little laugh, nodding.  "And you.  Though, I have to admit, I'm still thrown by the suddenness of it all."

  "Yes, it had to happen quickly.  From what I was told, you couldn't stay in the roosts any longer."

  "You heard about that?"  Dacey hoped the dim would cover the mortal blush she felt fall over her.  Before that woman in particular--whose duty Castillo would not let them forget--it was very troubling to know what a shambles she had been.  The memory of those screaming, pecking birds and Jovvok's evil stabbed her psyche, but she could not imagine offering her body to her captor on a nightly basis with no guarantee of freedom or continuance, and certainly she could not see herself bearing a child for the sake of strangers.  "Might I ask how?"

  "Badock had already told me about the trouble you'd had in your assignments," Tasia explained.  "He didn't know what to do with you when the roosts had proved to be as bad, but since you had always completed your work, he didn't see a need to reassign you until today.  The timing was perfect, though:  When Badock sent Emidas to me this morning, I asked Dradar that you be immediately assessed for reassignment to the household staff as an assistant to Ivador--which she in fact had already been in the position to request, as the general has rewarded Ivador with a once-weekly shift of off-compound duty.  Luckily, Dradar was not occupied until this evening and could interview you today."

  "This was your doing, then?" asked Dacey, surprised that none of her "former block" had ever suspected the consort's sources of intelligence--much less that she had any at all.

  "Yes."

  "And you've been keeping track of us?"

  "Badock has been watching your block at the general's request and providing me with details at mine."

  "Well..."  Dacey puffed a small breath, the remainder of her surprise fading to finally understand it all.  "Thank you...  Sorry, but what do I call you?"

  "Havaln."

  "Madam," Dacey translated.

  "Consort," Tasia corrected.

  Dacey flushed.  She had known that, and yet again had spoken before thinking.  "Forgive me.  It's an awkward conversion."

  "Yes.  Havaln translates to 'madam,' whereas the male form, 'havelku,' comes out properly as 'consort,'" Tasia acknowledged with an ironic turn of her lips.  "I don't wonder at what sort of interpreter coded those translation parameters."

  "Nor do I," Dacey returned, taken for a moment back to the Enterprise and her work on it.  How she had screamed at the horrific inaccuracies in the translation matrix!  What wars might have been caused and relations made suspect!  It was the cause of many a sleepless night and verbal battle during her short time there.  "For all that's unknown about Romulans, it's a language bound to be handled and mishandled with every encounter--starting with titles and worming its way from there."

  "It must be interesting to Romulans to hear addresses as they're used in the Federation."

  "There are quite a few of those disagreements, in fact," Dacey acknowledged.  "And it goes both ways.  While working on my fluency this past year and though I had been warned fairly, I'd not known how effectively I could insult a freeborn Romulan.  Linnag just today gave me quite the pointer for the address of 'ma'am.' I hope she doesn't hold it against me later."

  Tasia peered askance at her backhanded question, and Dacey all over again felt her self-consciousness.  She would have to remember daily that the consort was as observant as any of the Romulans there, and likely even more proficient in judging what she saw, being a fellow human.  "Linnag is an excellent, well-appointed assistant--perfect for Dradar."

  "And not so much for you?"

  "Ivador has been better suited for me, yes...and I think you will be, too.  Still, Linnag is a superior teacher of Romulan ways, more so than the other house assistants, and she's absolutely dedicated to the family."

  "But no one else in the house?"

  "She has no reason to be.  But you can follow her:  She won't bother to deceive someone beneath her.  Though, if you're not certain about her or anyone else, you can ask me or Ivador privately.  Don't speak to any other staff about your questions or problems, and as much as you can help it, don't let them see your difficulties.  Romulans resent weakness and will do what they can to excise it, for your good or for their own.  There is no way to predict which that will be."

  "If I'd known _that_ a year ago!" Dacey responded, but sucked it back when Tasia flinched at the sound.  "I beg you forgive me again, Havaln.  I will do my best to be quieter."

  "I'm only used to the house--and you will be, too, eventually.  There's nothing to forgive."

  "There may well be soon enough.  Truly, I could have been far wiser from the start.  I've paid dearly for it here already."

  "How so?" Tasia asked, her brow furrowing.

  "With a complete loss of respect," Dacey answered, perhaps too quickly, but she ploughed ahead despite the consort's visible suspicion, "a barracks full of people looking down at me--my own crew included--had I any right to claim respect.  And for all I thought I'd learned since coming here, I made a complete ass of myself in front of Dradar."  Suppressing any further self-reproach, she held Tasia's gaze.  "But truly, Havaln, I will do my best to be worthy of my duty here.  I will serve most honorably, as best I can."  Shuddering deep within her cloak, she voiced in afterthought, "You must know how I want to, and will do all I can to avoid the corrections I had earned."

  Again, Tasia took the information with a thoughtful nod.  What she deduced, she did not express.  Instead, she placed her smoothly gloved hand on Dacey's arm and said, "You can relax, Dacey.  With Dradar, all you need to remember is that her brother and their family's honor is everything to her.  Nothing else compares and she has little else to concern herself with.  If you only remind yourself that, yes, you serve their honor in your duty and must always be loyal and respectful, you'll do well, even with mistakes.  Both the general and Dradar are forgiving if they know your intent is in line with their propriety."

  "Then perhaps it won't be too terrible.  I know I'm able now to focus on what I must do here.  That much I was taught quite well."

  "I hope the lesson was not too strenuous."

  Dacey resisted the impulse to lie.  The others might accept her excuses, but the lady before her already suspected something had been amiss.  Dacey could feel her intentness.  She likely wouldn't be put off if she felt a genuine need to know.  --But she must not know.  Jovvok might be dishonored, but there was no telling what reprisals might occur, what allies he might have had...  "I've managed."

  "You seem very anxious to avoid mistakes," Tasia observed.

  "I've always been like that.  Only, I was in my element, then.  When we came here, I'd disdained the work I had to do--and being very much the product of my family, I made no secret of it.  Thus the trouble.  But again, it got better with time--and it'll be better still, now."

  Tasia did not blink.  "Now that you've been removed from the roosts."

  Dacey felt her spine tighten at the point laid plainly before her.  With every ounce of effort, she maintained her facade.  "Yes."

  Tasia's expression turned to something curious at that, and glancing down for a moment, Dacey could practically feel the gears turning in the other woman's head.  For a moment, she feared the consort would take her examination to another level, but she was quickly relieved. 

  "I didn't meet you while I was staying on your ship," Tasia said offhandedly, "and I had never since learned what your duties had entailed.  Badock told me you're adept in the various dialects."

  "I'm a linguist by education--a translator technician professionally.  It's why I know what I do about those translation problems.  I study how languages file into Earth Standard via the translation matrix then make the corrections...."  There, she realized that she had used the present tense.  "I used to," she softly added.  Feeling her gut tighten and her eyes sting, she again shelved the memory of that bright, cheerful life and youthful hope.  "Anyway, I've a knack for languages, and I'd had a bare minimum of Romulan thanks to some friends at home and my studies of Vulcan language transition.  I picked it up quickly after coming here."

  "Did Badock give you materials?"

  "Emidas did when he encouraged it, yes.  It helped with the mechanics, but the practical knowledge came largely on its own.  I put the translator away after I felt safe enough to do so and worked out my errors with experience...and quite a few pointed comments."

  "That's how it was done with me, too," Tasia said, smiling privately.

  "So, I'm through Jikraahk; I'm near fluent in Rul'siat now, and I'm working on Morvagh, thanks to Deviar and Tharol. --Or I had been."

  Tasia's brow flicked up.  "Your talents should be put to better use," she remarked.  "Continuing with Morvagh will be very good, and you shouldn't be allowed to forget the other languages you know."

  Dacey's heart leapt to hear the desire she had all but given up.  "But I keep it fresh!" she blurted in her surge of excitement and immediately regretted it, seeing the lady before her blink once again at the sound.  "I beg you again to forgive me, Havaln."

  "You'll adapt," Tasia assured her.  "What do you mean by 'keep it fresh?'"

  "I spend every day, or a half, or a conversation, usually to myself, speaking a different language--all the ones I know.  I switch at random so I don't get lost.  The translators usually don't mind it, though my crewmates did.  But it's helped me retain it while speaking Romulan for a good deal of the day otherwise."

  "That's very smart of you."  Pausing once more, Tasia's eyes turned aside.  Her lips pursed with consideration before she went on, "The general has a large library, and he owns many volumes he's unable to translate well, Federation languages and ancient Romulan, among some others.  I'll recommend you to assist him in your low duty time."

  Her elation froze upon her processing the idea.  "Me?"

  "The general often requires assistance from the computer, but he's sometimes frustrated by its translations.  I'm sure he would appreciate a more intelligent analysis...  Why do you look frightened?  Really, if you're only loyal, you'll have nothing to fear in him, Dacey.  --Should I call you Dacey?  Your family name is Kerr."

  "Aye, but everyone calls me Dacey," she returned.  "I'm so bad about it, they'd taken to calling me Ensign Dacey instead.  I mean Kerr's fine and I love my husband..."  She coughed, stiffening again.  "Loved, I mean...since I'll probably never...you know..."

  Suddenly, Tasia took Dacey's hands and brought them close, a kind of embrace.  "No, you _love_ him," she said, a particular sincerity determining her soft voice now, "and you _are_ a linguistic technician, your home _is_ on Earth, and when a proper way is found, you'll see your husband and family again, Dacey.  I will do everything I can to ensure that the general is able to keep his promise.  It's why I'm here, why I think I was meant to survive with all of you.  So you must never lose hope, and trust me."

  Dacey blinked, and traitorous water fell from her eyes.  "Yes, Havaln," she choked.  "Thank you.  I...thank you."

  A nod and a gentle squeeze of her fingers were her only acknowledgement.  Releasing her, Tasia politely turned her attention aside for a moment as Dacey got herself under control.  It took some doing, the sacrifice of her neat robe sleeve and a humiliating blow of her nose on it. When she finally lowered her arm and straightened herself, Tasia drew a slow breath and looked at Dacey anew.  "This is the last time we'll speak Standard to each other in general conversation.  You understand, yes?"

  "Yes, Havaln," replied Dacey, quietly at last.  Her nerve easing with that small release, she felt her upcoming duty press into her and her loyalty to the consort expand tenfold with just that much conversation.  For the first time, she understood Castillo's slavish dedication to the woman he'd known but a few days.

  "It will be all right, Dacey," Tasia promised.  "Ivador and I will help you, and she and Linnag will train you well.  I'm certain you will have no problems in the house."

  Dacey closed her eyes briefly, hearing Mika's encouragement echo the consort's, drowning out for the moment all that told her she was unworthy of the duty, that she would require correction before she might earn any honor there.  She hoped so badly they were right that it hurt inside.  Not once in her life had she ever been so desperate, so in need of others to bolster her spine and offer her a string of hope.  It was humiliating, but it was genuine, and she cursed herself and Jovvok alike for drawing out what was really inside all of her bluster, for forcing her to realize what her soul was really worth.

  But that was done, and Dacey felt the accursed instruction likewise remind her that she had only what lay right before her now to concern herself with--which redirected her concern to Tasia with a clarity that surprised even her.  "And what about you?" she asked.  She dipped her head to regain the woman's gaze.  "Are _you_ all right?  You don't have to go into detail, but I think I should know if I'm to start serving you how to gauge circumstances here."

  "I made my decisions with my eyes open, Dacey," she answered, quiet but certain, "as I have throughout my life.  I have no ambition but to see you all taken care of, and my only goal is to have you all rid of me and safely home.  I have done and will do everything I can to make that happen."

  "Then...the general has not been terrible?  You've been able to bear the change, then?"

  Tasia paused upon the question, and now a wholly new conversation seemed to play behind her eyes.  Long moments passed as she seemed to wade through it.  Then she smiled at Dacey, a wise little smile beneath a soulful gaze that was at once beautiful, unnerving and utterly unforgettable. 

  "Change..." she whispered at last, the word drawn slowly out, then, "Zminy…"

  Dacey straightened, automatically placing the word's origin by the accent it owned, as well as the sudden ease with which it had been spoken.  "Da..."

  The acknowledgment did not change Tasia's expression, though she seemed to relax when she heard it.  "Moye zhyttya zminylosya."

  At last, the new servant felt her charge's voice.  With those few words, what had been missing in her had materialized, rewriting every impression Dacey had about the woman.  "Da, Havaln," she said, roused with her vindication and wanting to hear more.  Thinking quickly, she reiterated, "A zminy, jaki vam neobkhidno bulo uvesty u zhyttia buly vazhki?"

  "Zminy vidbuvajut’sia pomymo trudnoshchiv, Dejsi," Tasia answered, so smoothly that time that it took Dacey a beat to translate it.  "My abo perezhyvemo zminy abo ni. Tse tak prosto."  A lengthy pause followed as she drew a deep breath.  Her mind again seemed light years away; then her heavy gaze turned to rest on a point within the garden.  For nearly a minute, she did not speak.  Then, she added in Romulan, "Indeed, change cannot be avoided.  It will find you, regardless of how quickly you run or how stubbornly you turn your back.  No, it is better to turn to it and meet it, which is precisely what I have done, and obviously survived..."

  Dacey smiled.

  Tasia's faded away.  "Do tsykh pir..."

  Silence followed.

  A slight breeze snuck into the row, fluttering her hood, but she did not blink, nor did she hardly breathe as she lost herself within her thoughts.  Drawing a soft breath in the cold air, her eyes sage in the darkness beneath her hood, she at last turned to face the deep orange sun....

* * *

 

  Commander Troi waited when Dr. Kerr stopped, and she willed herself to repress her many questions.  Beside her, Mr. Castillo remained steady, his mixture of sadness, regret and curiosity refreshed upon his old friend's tale.  But he too did not speak. 

  Something told them both that Dr. Kerr was far from finished.

  At first, however, she did not choose to offer it.  For nearly a minute, she stared at some point on the table, adrift in those memories of unimaginable pain and fear, intense loyalty and love, and aching loss.  She debated with them all, putting them away and taking them out again.  A rush of warmth followed, and then horror, cold, and darkness followed by hope and then by loss.  Emptiness.  Determination.  Despair.  And then she eased them aside only to take them out a third time.  That time, they all lay before her in her mind, in her heart...and she at last committed to their presence, and contented herself there.

  Her feet curled up under her hip, her knotty shawl wrapped warmly about her shoulders as her fingers distractedly caressed a tassel, only her breathing could be heard when her eyes glinted with tears.

 

  END OF BOOK I

 

* * *

   
  _  
Coming Next:  Book II, Chapter Eight.  Contract  
_

 

  


_The look in the portrait had aged.  
  The woman in the image had been wizened by a life completely outside her previous experience, made more finely educated and aware.  
The woman in the image had understood far more than she cared to reveal, like Tasha had...and took it to her death._

[  
](http://www.dalaire.com/images/dalairem_479_tasia_last_2351.jpg)

_The woman in the image knew who she was._

_If that was correct, who precisely was she?_

[  
](http://www.dalaire.com/images/dalairem_479_natasha_summer_2342.jpg)  


  


* * *

APPENDIX:

Change…  
Зміни….  
Zminy…

My life has changed.  
Mоє життя змінилося.  
Moye zhyttya zminylosya.

Were the changes you had to make to your life difficult ?  
А зміни, які вам необхідно було увести у життя, були важкі ?  
A zminy, jaki vam neobkhidno bulo uvesty u zhyttia buly vazhki ?

Change will happen despite difficulties, Dacey. We survive the change or we do not. That much is simple.  
Зміни відбуваються помимо труднощів, Дейсі. Ми або переживемо зміни або ні. Це так просто.  
Zminy vidbuvajut’sia pomymo trudnoshchiv, Dejsi. My abo perezhyvemo zminy abo ni. Tse tak prosto.

до цих пір  
Do tsykh pir  
So far...

© D'Alaire M., 2011  
swiftian@yahoo.com  
 _Ed.  Many thanks again to Oksana, by way of Delta Flyer, for her translations._

* * *


	8. Contract

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For spoiler-free purposes, I have chosen not to post warnings at the beginnings of the story and chapters. Please see the [More Notes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/239973/chapters/368839) link for this story's warnings and disclaimer.

****

#### BOOK II

****  


* * *

    

_"Change will happen despite difficulties, Dacey.  We survive the change or we do not.  That much is simple."_

 

   "We would waste an opportunity for advancement by holding them, useless and a constant threat of deceit.  Execution remains the best option.  Their torment will bring us the greatest honor; all will see what fails before us as they wither and submit!"

   The assertion did not disturb her calm.

   But then, she was accustomed to the flow of adrenaline, and how to handle its aftermath.  For half of her twenty-eight years, she had lived in the constant cycle of fight and wait, to the extent that she was always at the ready, always ready for the quiet to pass and the fight to begin again.  The coolest warriors among the Federation had acclimated to that same chemical level, though a few of them had been transferred straight to psych when acclimation turned to addiction.  Thankfully, so to speak, high pressure situations had been a large part of Natasha's youth, so much so that she hardly noticed the difference in her nerve no matter where she was.

   Most of the time. 

        _"Targeting! ...They're gone! Searching!"_

        _"Lieutenant--"_

        _"I see a rumble! Loading photon torpedoes!"_

        _"Lieuten---"_

        _"Permission to fire, Captain! ....Permission to fire, Captain! ...Captain?"_

   Suddenly, she could see the shards of debris before her, and she still could not stop wondering...

   Most of the time...

        _"To start, you need to examine your objectives more closely, Lieutenant."_

        _"Wanting to keep the crew alive isn't enough of one?"_

        _"You won't keep them alive.  You can do your duty and help to defend your ship,  
        but in the end, it won't be up to you who lives and dies."_

   Most of the time.

   But that was one incident, she reminded herself.  Captain Picard had been right to recommend she be assessed.  No one had doubted her again.

   Narendra had been no different, and no different from what they had expected, save surviving it.  That she had _not_ been prepared for, and she had furiously tried to reassess the situation while waiting on the burned-out bridge after the battle.  Was she not supposed to be dead? Was she not supposed to be erased from time, negating everything she had fought to achieve? Had she made a mistake, causing her and the others to survive? Or was there something else she must do? What else was there for her?

   Her youthful training kept her theories simple and noncommittal until the Romulan guards stormed onto the Enterprise C's bridge and collected their prisoners.

    _Leave the plan and make a new one,_ she had prayed to herself, tight and silent as the Romulans arrived and barked orders at them.  _Keep your soul tight.  Now is all you own.  Use it._

   And so she crossed her arms, kept her eyes on the floor and let them pick her up and shove her with the others into a circle at the center of the bridge, where a transporter beam snatched them away a moment later.

   Now they waited in the middle of an otherwise empty, cavernous cargo bay.  None of them could move without being noticed.  Only she and Castillo stood; the others were sitting together, tending to the wounded or just watching from a crouch.  Castillo ensured that they would remain that way, whispering to a young officer called Yang not to attract any attention and letting him pass the order along to the others.  Nearby, in a communications alcove, seven officers faced one another to discuss the fate of the prisoners.  Serious, passionate and mindfully sardonic in turns, they took no pains to keep their arguments private whilst they decided on nothing.

   This intrigued Natasha as much as it frustrated her.  In her mind, not knowing was always the worst part of anything.  It prevented her from coming up with a new plan.  She needed to prepare.  Even if she must prepare for a slightly delayed death, she must be able to look at it clearly.  But none of the officers would settle on an answer.

   So she chose instead to study the officers' faces and tone, a turn of eye or gesture to a disruptor.  Most simply, two were against execution and two were for it.  The other three Romulans there looked noncommittal, probably only subordinates who would do as the officers bid.

    _None of them will decide,_ she realized.  _They are subordinates._

   "Bastards.”  Castillo's hard whisper was followed by a grunt under his breath as the Romulans continued to pass their arguments back and forth.  "They sure are having a good time."

   "No, they're not," Natasha corrected him.  "We mean nothing to them.  We're objects."

   "We are Federation citizens and have rights!" insisted one of the men beside them as under his breath as he could manage in his indignation.

   "Not here, we don't," she returned.

   "You just accept that?" another officer asked.  The woman's voice was shallow with fear.

   Though she did not avert her gaze, Natasha furrowed her brow.  Did Starfleet forget to train their officers to brave no more than a science survey? Even Castillo's comment had disappointed her.  They knew they were on a mission of death and had handled it well--until they survived.  _Survived the battle,_ she corrected herself.

   "We can't just let them kill us," the young woman shakily continued.  "There has to be something we can do--there's got to be a deal that can be made.  We have to be worth something to them."

        _"The body is a shell.  Only your soul matters.  Keep it tight in you, Natasha,  
        and see that no one can corrupt it!"_

   "I grew up having to accept where I stood no matter what I had to stand on," she told her.  "This is where you stand now.  You did everything you thought was the right thing; now we have to wait and accept what they give us.  I see no other option.  If we're worthless to them, you can die knowing that you were beyond worth to countless others."

   "You almost sound like you _want_ to die," she returned, almost in amazement.

   "I'm not afraid to die," Natasha replied.  Clearly, those few survivors still needed to understand what was ahead of them.  Like so many people she had met in the Federation, they seemed ready to throw away every value for the first notion of a miracle.  While she too had grasped at every chance in her life, she had been equally ready for failure, while never forgetting her purpose.  She had never forgotten she could be dead in a minute--at any minute...and should be...

        _"You're not supposed to be here."_

   Should be dead.  Should not have even been where she was...

        _"Accept what you have and use it! Never let defeat stop you!"_

   "And I won't sacrifice my dignity to them," she added, "and neither should you."

   Glancing at last to the recipient of her advice, she saw a woman with blonde, curly hair and a fair, round face, a few years younger than herself, still staring in horror up at her.  Tasha felt her chest tighten at her looks, but decidedly repressed any further reaction.  _That_ , certainly, would be a waste of attention and a distraction she could not afford.

   Instead, she reminded herself that a scant few in the Federation, much less Starfleet, had grown up as she had--and none of the Enterprise C survivors had fought a war anything like the one she had hopefully helped to prevent.  The woman before her had probably never suffered a lasting injury, disease or pain, much less thought about how bad a life could get when unprotected by the Federation.  She seemed to have started thinking about it now, though:  It was about to get very painful for them all.

        _"I did not say I wanted to die, Natasha, only that I did not want it to hurt_ if _it happened."_

   Natasha jerked her stare back to the Romulans.

   "The three left crawling should be treated before the trial can commence," said one of the officers, hardly casting a glance their way.

   "Will they be tried and tortured together," asked the one beside him, "or will we all have the opportunity to benefit from our labors?"

   It was interesting how they moved and spoke--utterly confident whether or not they had a right to be, calmly forthright even as their comrades dissented.  But then, they would have to be that self-assured:  She could tell just by their battle style that weakness did not survive among their kind for long; seeing them in person sealed that.  Now the dissent interested her.  Though they bickered amongst one another, they had patience enough for that last commander to arrive.  Certainly, that their mission objectives had been completed beyond expectation gave them ample opportunity to choose how to dispense with their trophies.

   Behind them, a door rumbled open.  But the officers did not turn toward it.

   "The greater number at the capital, broadcast properly, should be enough to show all the Empire our honorable service."

   "We will achieve full credit for conquering the offenders who tried to quash our mission by publicly crushing the lives of those enemies."

   "If that.”  The interjection had come from the door.

   The officers silenced.

   "I have returned from the Shivon," came the same, smooth baritone, still from its place at the entrance.  While not loud, it filled the cavernous space and left a deep impression.  Everyone turned to see its owner, and all of the Romulans except the four officers snapped painfully straight.  Then, a long-framed man of around fifty human years with short, black hair strode into and immediately owned the room.  His uniform, too, heralded his superiority:  A black coat with a red and steel-crested shoulder, a black waist sash and a diamond-shaped clasp at the knot.  The other officers straightened and two of them backed up to give him a clearer access into the group.  He was taller than them all.

   "Narendra has been defeated," he continued, his assuredness simply put and etched with disinterest, "and enough of the enemy have been spared to tell the story.”  Natasha focused on him, and then the other officers' visible control.  With that, she knew she had been correct:  What the others had said was not important.  _That_ officer would decide everything that would happen there--and he was well aware of it.

   "Our successes will be celebrated!" proclaimed one of the officers, but the commanding officer was not impressed.

   " _My_ successes will be _acknowledged_.  You will simply be honored as excellent support to the campaign I was ordered to take on in lieu of Attorrak's 'dysfunction.'"

   Natasha's lips twitched, briefly curious to know to what he had alluded.  But his other detail intrigued her more:  Attacks like that at Narendra were not his regular duty and apparently not to his taste--and he had made a point to let them know that.  Why?

   "Of course, General.”  The officer gave him a hard look.  "But you _will_ share this credit."

   The general's voice remained soft when he queried, "Do you challenge me, Commander Rovrek?"

   "I would never insult your place, General," the commander backpedaled.  "I was stating a certainty, not a question."

   "A wise decision, to lie, if but you hold to that lie.”  He glanced toward Natasha and the other prisoners.  "What of those? What have you discussed?"

   The officer next to Rovrek spoke up.  "We believe, General Tokarel, that a public execution in the capital will be the best form of honoring our valor and service to the Empire."

   Natasha watched him absorb the statement.  He was not surprised by the suggestion.  He turned to the officers across from Rovrek.

   "Tannok, Acara, you disagree.”  This, too, was not an unknown.  He knew these people.

   "There would be more worth in enslaving them," Acara told him, "committing them to labor and using them for tactical purposes as needed."

   The general's eyes flicked over each of the officers, studying them but committing to none.  Her eyes remaining pinned upon him, Natasha understood what she saw.  The general was interested in their opinions, but he would make his own decision.  There was no democratic process among that group, and without question, he had earned his arrogance, for they gave up all of their own to respect his place. 

   "Which would require my intervention, I suspect?" the general returned.

   "You have the resources, General," Acara told him, her tone and posture firmly respectful.

   "They would be wasted in a state of languishing!" barked Commander Rovrek.  "There is hardly any honor to be gained by keeping them fattened and caged."

   "They would be expensive and deceitful," said the one beside him.

   The general heard that too, but instead of addressing Rovrek, his eyes grew wise, and his chin rose slightly.  "They would and very well can be expected to revolt without incentive to remain dutiful.”  Pausing, he then said, "I will choose what would indeed best serve the Empire, and not what serves our personal honor, convenience or immediate use."

   Natasha felt her pulse pick up at the statement.  "We might have an option, after all," she said quietly to Castillo.

   "Okay," Castillo responded, "but whatever happens, I should be the one to do the talking.  This is the guy who tore us apart then let us live long enough to watch this show."

   He had spoken too loudly, she thought, disliking the idea of being heard by the officers, especially now, when something might happen to their benefit.  "Any of them would have," she said, now a near whisper she hoped he would follow.  "But he let us live this long, so that they could debate what to do."

   "Yeah, but they're not in charge, and you're in no position to bargain for anything.  Let me handle this one, Tasha."

   His volume was one matter, but now she twitched to correct him for using her name.  General Tokarel was already piqued at the noise, however, and he peered back to find her gaze already locked on him.  With another blink, he steadied his appraisal.  Stubbornly, she was not tempted to look away, telling herself not to disturb him, to give him time to process what he had already begin to think, for within those seconds, he already looked to have made several decisions.  In the same moment, her pulse slowed, steadying her, tightening her nerve.  Something was going to happen, and, death or servitude, it was going to happen to _her_.

   The general led the commanders a few more paces away and moulded them from displeasure to complete compliance within a minute and with little more expression than a brief look askance at Rovrek.  Natasha watched, still unmoved.  Indeed, a deal could be made.  But hearing more whimpers and muffled groans come from a couple of the injured crew behind her, knowing that they did not deserve the end Rovrek craved as much as they were ill prepared for it, she knew it should hardly be a decision for her, whatever it would be.

   The general's gaze resumed its direction and intensity, giving Natasha absolutely no room to mistake his focus.  He _was_ going to deal with her and no one else.

        _"You're not supposed to be here."_

   But she was obviously supposed to be _there._

   She could stand for them.  She would stand for them.  She _had to_ stand for them. 

        _"Their fate is not yours to own."_

        _"Only just enough.  That is all I expect._

   Natasha felt a muscle in her lip twitch at the irony.

   Failure or no, standing for them now was the right thing to do, and it was the only thing she could do, and their only hope, if any hope was to be had.  Her life was over.  Theirs could continue, and she would gladly give herself to an executioner for that cause.  There was nothing else for her.

   Indeed, this time, their fate _did_ belong to her, and she almost wished she could have that conversation again, if only to prove the doctor completely wrong.  A wholly different conversation awaited her, there, though, and she was ready for it.

   She had a purpose.  She had a focus.

   "I'll need to be the one to talk," she said and gave Castillo a look to convey her seriousness.  While she knew he cared about her and knew what was likely about to happen would hurt him, she wanted him to understand that he should not interfere with her helping them.  "Don't say anything.  Trust me."

   "I trust you, but I don't understand--"

   "Just give me a minute," she pressed. 

   "Tasha, be careful.”  Worry now filled his eyes below a furrowed brow.  "Don't agree to anything out of hand."

   "Let me take care of it," she assured him.  Her gaze cut back to the general, her nerves and body tightening appropriately.  Her nerve was good.  It felt right.  "I've had to deal with the devil before."

   The general finally stepped away from the other commanders, who peered after him.  Natasha understood his pace, almost catlike, watching her response.  Making equal show of her resolve, she moved a step around Castillo and toward the general and planted herself to let him bridge the remaining distance.  His eyes did not leave hers throughout their journeys, even when he was but a meter away.

   "May we speak?" asked the general.  His voice remained quiet and entirely assured, though different to how it had sounded when he spoke to the commanders.  He gestured aside before she could figure out the reason for the change.  “Privately, and without disturbance?”

   Moving in front of Castillo before he could say anything, Natasha nodded and walked with the general to a niche on the side of the bay.  Sitting at the general's gesture and waiting for him to join her, she drew a deep, imperceptible breath to slow her pulse.  _Tight...  Keep it tight.  Now is all you have.  Use what you have--for them._ She brought her gaze up to meet his and asked with a flick of her brow.  To her surprise, he seemed to like her silent request and bowed his head slightly in respect before speaking.

   "I would like to offer you and your shipmates an alternative to execution," he informed her.

   The statement fell into Natasha's understanding without difficulty.  Not a partial execution, which might well mean he had other plans for her.  There was only one thing she could imagine...  However, she knew better than to assume, so she asked, "What would that alternative be?"

   "For the preservation of the others from your ship, you would accept the rank of consort under my contract."

   "Consort? What is that?"

   "A personal companion."

   Her mouth twitched.  Then again, she trusted her instincts for a reason.  Still, she understood it without remorse:  It was a perfectly reasonable proposition, particularly from his perspective.  The others--strong, healthy and terrified--would be useful and want to survive, and she wanted that for them.  But binding herself sexually to someone she did not know, in a foreign culture...  She could not see how she could do something like that in her conscience.  How could she come away from such an agreement...

        _"Where am I supposed to be?"_

   She blinked.

        _"Dead."_

   "Would the crew get medical treatment?" she asked.

   The general started back slightly at her abrupt inquiry, but recovered quickly to answer, "Their needs would be immediately attended to."

   "The others talked about slavery."

   "It is the standard form of handling prisoners we do not execute."

   "What does that slavery entail?"

   "I have an expansive farm complex within my compound on which they would live and work for the duration of their incarceration."

   Natasha measured him.  The simplicity of his presentation fit her way of thinking.  He was a direct thinker, practical and assured.  He too was a warrior.... 

    _He defeated the Enterprise,_ she recalled, feeling a her pulse quake to then realize, _I fought_ him _in the end.  He ended the battle that had made this history...and this present I must live._

   She trained her shoulders down to quell her agitation.  He was also the person who would have them all dead upon a single command if he saw fit.  No amount of appreciable skill would change that.  He could simply be amusing himself after his impressive win.  --But then, she knew that did not ring true with her impression of him.  Maybe the other officers would enjoy a dalliance, but the general seemed the sort who would not bother to spare his attention without purpose.  Still, he was probably the one who had the survivors brought to that bay, and to that choice, which he had lain plainly upon his alien prisoner's shoulders.

   "What kind of work they would do?"

   "Simple maintenance and agricultural labor."

   "What about their safety? For aliens to come among a native workforce and be treated well by everyone is not typical."

   That time, his brows rose at her observation, but he resumed his previous expression soon after to reply, "They would be ranked among the tevol'oc there, and for this equal status among the others, they would come to no harm for mere appearances.  My compound, long the holding of my family, and its occupants know nothing but order and excellent conditions.  My pride demands it, even for those whose rank too often negates respectful treatment.  I tolerate no dissent."

   "What is the penalty?"

   "Public humiliation and beating, occasionally death.  I see to it the punishment balances the infraction."

   "Brutal but fair," Natasha assessed.  "And you're the one to provide judgment and sentence."

   "This too is my duty.  My methods are often considered merciful, though I have not yet found them ineffective.  And you, I believe, are considered a meticulously practical creature.  Your battery of inquiries impresses me, particularly considering that they show no regard for your person, but for those in your company.  However, I am required elsewhere presently, and so I cannot enjoy your selflessness long.  Is there anything else you feel a great need to learn before I tell the commanders to what I shall commit you and your people?"

   She frowned, unable to tell whether his comment was sarcastic or expedient, but then she remembered what his question was.

   Her entire world shrank around her... 

        _"I have not spent all this time with you to turn out a whore."_

   But it made sense.

   Her eyes averted to the group.  Nine in all, three injured.  She focused on one, in tears, shaking with pain and terror; the blonde woman she had spoken to earlier was unmoving now, frozen with uncertainty.  Another, a well-muscled man who had gotten to his feet next to Castillo only to cross his arms tightly upon his chest, looked like he would bolt at any moment.  Natasha had shot off younger ones in pill capsules for nearly four years on her ship--sometimes just parts of those kids who only wanted to serve the Federation, fight the right fight--and those were the lucky ones. 

    _Why add to the dead, when Guinan had nothing to say about them, only me?_ she mused.  Likewise, she had asked for the sacrifice that had brought her there, and she had done what she had set out to do--everything _but_ meet a death of her choosing.  But the others had a life--or could have a life again eventually, if...

   "Would the others be locked into a life sentence?" she asked.  "I can tell you now that some would rather take death than life in servitude, and I don't have the right to choose that for them."

   "You cannot tell?"

   "I don't know them."

   His stare flicked over her, examining her clothing and focusing on her socks for a moment.  "You are not among their crew," he observed.  "Why were you on that military ship?"

   "I was a guest," she told him.

   "That man spoke your name--Ta- _sai_ -ah, was this?"

   "He and I talked a few times," she allowed, not correcting his pronunciation.  It rang more like her real name than the other, and yet was also not her name.  "That doesn't mean I can make decisions for him or any of the others."

   "And yet, you find yourself in such a position."

   "Which is why I want to know what they should expect of their lives among your people."

   "But not yours?"

   "I can make decisions for myself without references."

   The general bowed his head in acceptance of her point and said, "Arrangements need to be made at times with factions exterior to the Empire.  I would be willing mark these slaves for barter and trade them in whole when a proper situation arises.  Do you require my word that I will seek such an arrangement for them?"

   She eyed him, again unsure about his tone of voice.  "Your word is whatever you make of it, but I would like to hear you swear it, yes."

   "I give my word," he told her, "that the Federation survivors will be traded when an appropriate situation arises.”  At that, the general asked, "Shall I in turn trust _your_ word? Trust that you will be worthy of the honor I extend to you and that you will not betray me?"

   She bristled.  "I do as I say I will.  When I make a promise, I keep it.  Otherwise, I say nothing."

   His lips turned up as he bowed his chin.  "I did not intend to offend you."

   "I'm not offended," she lied.  "I only want you to understand me."

   "What's going on?" came Castillo's voice from behind them.

   Natasha looked over at him.  "I'm taking care of this," she told him, glad he had stayed silent for so long, but now hoping he would say nothing more.  Though she had easily gotten to know his sense of patriotism and dedication as an officer and a person, she honestly could not tell what he might do in that situation.  Then again, that was not her greatest concern at the moment.  She held no illusions about what she was about to bind herself to.

   But it made sense, and it was a chance for them.  A chance of hope for them was worth the dignity of a dead woman.

   Her heart shrank anew.  A dead woman.  For all her lack of fear to die, a living death in a state of social disgrace was the one thing she had never expected, never imagined.  How could she exist in such a state? Was this what Guinan had actually meant?

        _"The body is a shell.  Only your soul matters.  Keep it tight..."_

   "Will you give your word that the crew will be unharmed and treated well?" she repeated, loud enough that time to answer Castillo without breaking her business there.

   The general seemed to understand her move.  Rising to his feet, he matched her volume.  "By my honor," he stated, "the Federation crew shall be treated well and marked for barter with their own, and I will remain true to this oath as faithfully as you do to yours."

   "Then I give my word, too.”  Standing, Natasha resisted the urge to shake the general's hand, and felt stupid for thinking of it at all.  There were places where Desha's guidance had been to her detriment--and it certainly could be to everyone's detriment there if she did not let her instincts rule her again.  They had kept her alive in hell.  They could only do so again...no matter what hell she had chosen.

   Natasha drew a deep breath to keep herself as straight as she could in her chilled, stockinged feet as she at last confirmed it:  "We have an agreement."

   "Excellent.”  He signaled an officer at the corridor entrance.  "Send for the staff attendant, her aide and Physician."

   "I obey you, General."

   Natasha felt Tokarel's eyes on her again and turned to see him bow his head solicitously despite her obvious lack of pleasure.  "I will find a suitable woman to assign to you," he informed her, now even more gentle in tone.  "There are many unranked serving aboard my ship, in my kitchens and living quarters.  She will be found presently and sent into your employ."

   It meant nothing to her, but she did acknowledge this information.  Seeing a keenly interested group in the corner of her eye and knowing she wanted to explain herself, she asked, "May I speak with Lieutenant Castillo?"

   "You may."

   The general moved to address his commanders, and Natasha stepped back over to the Enterprise crew, acknowledging the larger group with a glance and a nod before looking at Castillo.  She was not surprised by her discomfort with him, now.  In contrast, Castillo's stare nailed her with both confusion and accusation.  "I'm being assigned to separate quarters," she said first.  "You will all be taken care of, and no one will be hurt."

   "What did you just do?" he demanded aside.

   Her eyes darted to the others again then back to him.  "I made a deal," she told him quickly then added, "Your sentence is to work on the general's property until he can find a trade to get you back to Federation space.  Do what they tell you and keep the others in line until that can happen."

   "In exchange for what?" Castillo asked her, his hush giving way to urgency.  "What did you give him?"

   "I think you already know.  But that's not important."

   "The hell it's--"

   "Look at them, Richard!" she insisted, losing patience with his focus on her.  " _Look_ at them.  No training prepares them for anything like this.  Do you want to watch us all suffer and die before taking your turn? I'm giving you all a _chance_.  If you don't want it for yourself, at least let me make the deal for them."

   His whole face seemed to fall, and she suddenly felt disgusted with herself as well as with him.  She should not have allowed Castillo to be interested in her, much less kissed him.  She had meant to bolster him as he faced a certain end, but she knew better than to allow personal relations to get in the way of what needed to be done.  She had let her distraction affect her.  She had let him come too close, and though she could not have predicted what would happen, she was paying for it now. 

   After years of keeping herself together, maintaining her iron-clad facade, she had been slipping.  There had been little to hold her true for a couple of years, true, but now...

   She had been slipping.  And she had tripped. 

        _"I can do just enough--what I can."_

        _"And when you fail?"_

        _"I'll be as dead as the rest of them, so it won't really matter how I feel by then."_

        _"I'm not asking how you will feel then, but how you feel about the prospect now,  
        because someday, you will fail, and you won't necessarily be dead."_

   But she was now.  She was now.

   They were not--though it could cost his life and the others' if she failed to make him see her sense.  Unfortunately, he was not alone.  In the corner of her eye, she could see the others staring at her, too.  Yang's lips had parted with silent protest.  The blonde woman who had spoken to her before was shaking her head.  Natasha felt the woman's dismay even as she quashed her own. 

        _"I have not spent all this time with you to turn out a whore."_

   She had no room for that, either.  They would be alive to understand later, even if they thought less of her for it.

   "Tasha...”  Even in that sigh, Castillo begged her.

   "I couldn't live with myself if I denied you this chance," Natasha returned, thinking quickly to use her argument to her advantage, "when I already have nothing.  --No, it's true:  I have nothing to hold me--no family, no home, no life to claim; there is nowhere for me to go.  So I can make this deal in good conscience, knowing you and the others will be safe and have the chance of someday going home."

   He seemed to absorb the information well enough, but it floated there like a pebble on a tar pool.  "But to agree to that...with _him_..."

   Her eyes turned down for a moment.  "It's not the first time I've had to make this kind of a deal," she confided, but only to silence him on that topic.  She most certainly did not want to dwell on her reference just then.  "I'm not proud of it, but I'm not ashamed, either.  I do what I need to do to survive and protect the people I care about.  The only other option has no possible reversal, no way out.  What the general offered makes sense, so I accepted it.  Obviously, I'm not happy about this, either, but...it makes sense, and there is no other way.”

   "Consort."

   She turned at the title to see the general gazing at her.  The commanders had transported away.  Looking at the crew now, the general showed no rancor, and yet did not pretend any pleasantries.  An easy hand turned to gesture toward a Romulan woman standing two paces behind him.  She wore a heavy, olive frock with a matching hood hanging off the back of her dark hair, which was tightly braided into wide loops that met at the base of her head.

   "Aide will guide you."

   Natasha drew a slow breath then gave Castillo one last, long look.  "I'm keeping you safe; you keep _them_ safe."

   "Tasha, are you sure?"

   She was now certain that neither Castillo, nor the rest of them, would understand her.  Even if she had the time to explain herself, he would not understand.  He was still working off his first impressions--an enamored impression at that--and from the perspective of Human Starfleet officer raised inside of Federation homes.  He was no different to any of the rest.  Why had she expected otherwise?

   No, she should not have allowed him to come close to her, but it was done nonetheless, and he would have to process it in his own time--time they all now owned.  "I can take care of myself, Richard.  I know what I'm doing."

   And there was no more time to impress him further.  The olive-clad woman was waiting, as well as the fruit of her decision to save them.  She only hoped it would not be too painful to live with.  She had an excellent tolerance for unpleasantness, but the past several years had spoiled her.  Even on the most wretched campaigns, her living conditions and diet in Starfleet had been excellent.  Life would be bad again, and she would have nowhere to go even if she chose to escape.  Though, she knew without any doubt that it would not be the worst life she knew.  Nothing could exceed her last weeks on her homeworld.  _Nothing_.

   So she turned and gave the Romulan woman a nod of greeting.  There were no more considerations, nothing more to think about.  It was simply time to go and to hope she had not committed them all to a wretched purgatory.  If at any time in her life she needed to blindly trust complete strangers with a fool's hope, it was now.

   The Romulan seemed not to mind the silence.  In fact, her response was not much louder.  "I serve."

   Drawing a firming breath, Natasha set herself in motion to follow.

 

* * *

   It was cool in the chamber the aide had led her into, and the odor of the place was not her imagination.  It had a heavy, citrus-like scent about it that did not fade easily with exposure.  Like the rest of the ship, the lighting was dimmer than she knew of the Enterprise, and its quality was not the blue-white known of the Federation, but a pale yellow, like an old, artificial sun reflected off cold, pallid stone.

    _Like home had been,_ she mused.

   Standing in the middle of the galley room, scanning the living half and sleeping half with a steady gaze, she noted the plain but thick ochre fabrics on the square-framed seats and the small bed, the simple, bronze colored furniture, and the rich, warm wood of a heavy, oblong table.  The last piece caught her attention particularly.  It looked like it had been carved from a massive tree, with a top as thick as the length of her hand and a base that looked like it should grow into the deck rather than sit upon it.  It didn't look like it belonged, though admittedly, she knew very little about what _should_ be right in a Romulan room--very little about that race save that they once had been excellent warriors, bound by honor and to none other but the Romulan Empire, which in the end had been their downfall at the brutal hands of the Klingon Empire...in that other place, which had been destroyed if their sacrifice had been successful. 

   She blinked slowly to kill the return of remorse, remorse over the loss of...everything.

   She thought she could not lose any more than what she had.

        _"You're not supposed to be here."_

   Her eyes refocused on the table.

        _"Your goal right now, Lieutenant, is to understand what you want from the rest  
        of _ your _life."_

   A life not meant to be, mirrored by an empty death.  But that was not the case now for them.  Maybe they were meant to survive.  Maybe there was still hope.  With a prevention of the war, so many battles would never happen.  So much would never happen...

   Was it too much to hope for? Natasha's heart raced with the rush of that idea...and the possibilities, dreams she had been forced to discard, all those goals sent into the dust with everything else that owned her soul.

   It could be.  It could be.

   Then all the hope stopped, and dread returned.

   It was not for her.  Not for her.  There would be nothing for her--all of the hope was as impossible as it was a day ago...  But maybe not for the other, the "correct" one, if she achieved her duty before death claimed her.

   But _she_ had wanted it.

   She had wanted...

   Turning sharply toward the center of the room, Natasha thought again that the wooden table was very odd, out of place among those otherwise straight lines and neat corners.  She wondered if it might have been the room of a former mistress.

   That was not something she wanted to know about. 

   She had no desire to know about many things, but she felt the questions.  She felt all of those unknowns coming upon her more with every minute, in that silence and chill.

   And hope.  Dismal, delirious hope...that it would not happen there, and maybe, maybe...

        _"Focus!"_

   And she stopped herself again.

        _"Pay attention, girl! You miss because you have no focus! Live_ now _,_  
        act now _.  Do not let what is behind or ahead of you slow you! Now  
        is all you own! --Lift, focus, aim.  Fire!"_

   She saw her small hands wrapped around the makeshift phaser.

   She saw her small hands wrapped around the case handle.

   Taking a few more steps into the space, Natasha noticed that the walls in the rear of the quarters were actually partitions, thick slabs jutting out on either side of the room with a plain wall in the same color behind it.  Stepping closer, she looked into that rear area.  To the right was what looked like a storage or sitting area, with open shelves and rods and a large square ottoman in the middle.  Nothing could be hidden there.  To the left was a shallow pool with beige tile and a curved stone stool in the middle.  This apparently was the bathtub.  A cubicle behind the bath's back wall held a small toilet, set into the wall and designed to be leaned against rather than sat on.  Natasha filed that and turned back for the middle of the room.

   She shivered.  The brownish-grey colors were sedate but the chill was driving up her nerves, particularly as she had given up her boots and tunic, and it was so quiet that she could hear her heart beat when she stilled, her blood rushing behind her ears.  There was no thrum of systems, nor any other mechanical sounds.  It was utterly silent, save any noise she would make, bringing her world to a dead stop.

        _"Tell no one what I have done."_

   Then she noticed the lack of windows, and that the only technology in the room was a panel at the door.  The aide did not inform her what the two buttons on it were for, but she guessed one was an alert and the other the actual door control.  They sat flatly within the LED frame, probably print coded.  Whatever surveillance there was in the room--no doubt, the room was monitored--was camouflaged.

   Having toured the room, searching every nook and irregularity in the walls and ceiling, Natasha then realized she would need to wait for someone to come for her, and that would probably be the general to begin seeing to the details of their agreement.  She pulled a deep breath and forced it back out slowly, calming herself, flexing her resolve.  She had told Richard to silence him, but she had not lied to him.  At least this time, it was an honorable choice and good would come of it for others.  It was not desperation, or worse, naivety.

        _"Their bad words disappear in the air.  Our good words and good deeds  
        are immortal."_

        _"Because we must be the good words, and we must show others what good is in  
        our deeds."_

   Or at least it was a good way to reconcile her to her choice, as was knowing that the deal was done and she would have to go through with it, so there was no room for complaint. 

   She could see her small hands grabbing the bloody bag, and a face...crying out even in death...

   She swung around again and, seeing the door, imagined the general coming through.  How should she behave? How should she hold herself? Should she just let him go to it and do as he pleased, or might he want more participation on her part? The general seemed observant of her when they spoke, quietly wise and yet absolutely assured in his method and his goals--a pragmatist.  His battle style said the same.

    _He will probably let me know what he wants and see what I do,_ she deduced.  _Guessing anything else right now is a waste of energy._

   Again, she shivered in the silence.

   As such, she waited.

   . 

   And then she waited some time more.

   She wondered if she should sit down.  No doubt, the people monitoring her would note her pacing, watch the patterns and note any signs of agitation.  She laughed a little at herself, there.  After a full day of consciousness and everything that had come with it, she should rather _lie down_ and sleep.  Certainly, it seemed she had the time to do so.  She had already been in those silent quarters for what felt like hours with no diversion.

   As she began to consider it, she realized the purpose of the silence and isolation.  Solitary and silence were two common ways about psychological manipulation--subtle and effective.  The accompanying comfortable surroundings, warm colors and cool temperatures were all a distraction--as well as a numbing agent. 

   There were no decorations on the walls.  They were as amber as everything else in there, and dull in the dim.

        _"Do you never see the sun, Mr. Kitaev?"_

        _"Light shines into the atrium during much of the day, and the main corridors are  
        lighted.  We do not complain about the tunnels, now."_

        _"How many did they kill before you did not complain?"_

        _"What a gruesome question you ask!"_

        _"I want to know.  How many did they kill after killing all of the others?"_

    _Too many.  --No more of that, Natasha! Get close to the heat vent.  You, too, girl.  
        Get warm before it turns off."_

        _"What is your name, little one? ...Have you a name?"_

        _"Her name is Polina."_

   Rubbing her fingers together in a way so familiar to her that she barely thought about it, Natasha paced another full circle around the room before examining the firm but well-padded chair, and then the bed.  She walked to it.

   It looked stark but was surprisingly soft and clung to her body when she lay upon it.  She did not expect or want to sleep, however.  For all her body's relief in reclining, her heart was still beating quickly and her eyes would not relax enough to close.

        _"We stay together--always."_

        _"It is always better when we are together."_

   Kicking her legs off the mattress, she pushed herself to stand and resume her pace around the quarters.  Activity proved more relieving, more diverting.  Lying down made her colder when she needed to figure out how she was going to live, and how she should present herself to someone when her entire history was gone.

   Blowing a breath, she reminded herself to be patient.  She would know how to be once she had a better idea of what her conditions would be like.  She had waited a day in a shadow more than a few times, waiting without sound or movement to get where she needed to go.  Of course, that had been on a world she knew fully, even when situations went awry.  Not being able to scope out the situation now made her itch for input. 

    _Focus, Nataliya.  Now is all you own._

   The walls had nothing to break them.

   The memory of her screams began to echo within her, growing louder in the deadly silence.

   Natasha turned to pace another lap, swinging her arms into each position, fluid, as she had been taught...

   …grabbing the blood-soaked bag, heavy in her hand, feeling the wash of satisfaction to imagine what was inside...

   She turned again.

   It could not be much longer of a wait.

. 

. 

. 

   It could not be much longer of a wait.

        _"Wait--always wait, Natasha! They wait for you--you wait for them.  Get them  
        when they tire, get lazy or stupid."_

        _"How long will it take?"_

        _"As long as it needs to! --And start speaking Standard.  --No arguments! You_  
        must learn your enemy so they do not learn you! Remember when you said you are  
        a Settler? You lost your name.  What will you lose next? Will you let them take  
        it? Speak Standard when you are near them, even if it is sloppy! Let them believe  
        their lies while you hide in front of their evil eyes!"

        _"I do not want to be one their lies!"_

        _"You will be if you want to survive!"_

   Natasha blew a breath and clasped her hands as she started another circle.  Was this their practice--or was her luck finally gone, and she had bound herself to a worse situation than she had bought?

        _"You have to be faster! Focus! Fire! ...Again!"_

   But she calmed in a breath.  Her instincts were true.  She had not misjudged.  She knew.  She must know this and trust herself, if no other in the universe.  She must trust her soul was true.  The unknown was what made the anxiety.  She had to keep her focus and not waver.

        _"Okay."_

        _"There!"_

        _"Okay!"_

   A hiss sounded behind her, and she swung around, instantly prepared, face set, posture straight:  Ready to face the general.

   To her surprise, however, he did not come in.

   Rather, a comely woman about her physical age in an olive green gown and sheer headdress padded silently into the middle of the room and bowed her head.  "Jolan tru," she said, hardly above a whisper.  The tone was dulcet, but her large brown eyes offered every evidence of both energy and curiosity as she gave Natasha a once-over.  She had a stack of fabrics in her arm, which, receiving no reply, she carried to the back room.  Returning, she crossed the space and activated the bath with a sweep of her hand.

   Natasha flinched that time.  The splashing of water on the tiles was as loud as the door.

   "Your bath Consort," the woman said, gesturing to the shallow pool.

   Natasha nodded.  "Thank you."

   The woman waited several seconds, staring at Natasha expectantly.  Then, she offered again, "You will sit there.  I will assist you with your clothing."

   "I would rather do that myself."

   Giving her body another perusal, the woman conceded with a flick of her brow and a turn of her chin.  "In this instance, Consort, I must agree.  I doubt I would manage your person as well."

   Natasha looked at the bath again.  Judging by where the water poured out and the bench's location, the bather was supposed to sit and scoop the water onto themselves.  Shrugging, she gave the woman another nod.  The woman was unmoved.  Natasha tried not to sigh her impatience.  Obviously, the general was not the only thing she would have to get used to.  "May I have some privacy, please?"

   The woman blinked, not hiding her surprise at first.  She looked to want to say something, but she instead pressed her lips together.  Bemused, she allowed herself another moment to consider the situation then finally turned around.

   Natasha rolled her eyes, shook her head to herself and pulled off her undershirt.  Not that she was shy about her body.  She knew without arrogance that she had an excellent one, lean and strong, long and well-proportioned.  Often, she had been told that genetics had blessed her, and she had to agree, considering the conditions and her health on her homeworld.  Following her escape from Turkana, she had quickly improved, first with Dr. Masden's help, and then with studiously good food and rigorous physical training.  But even having spent as many growing years without the promise of private space--when certainly, a human female did need some on particular occasion when not blessed with menstrual control implants--she had always managed some seclusion.

   Apparently, the Romulans had a different idea about that, at least in her new profession.

    _Profession._

   Pressing down her shoulders as she set aside the last of her clothing, her soot-smeared gold socks, Natasha stepped into the pool area.  The steam from the water was deliciously warm, and she hoped for a moment that the other crew had been bathed and made comfortable by then.  There was no way to know, though, without asking the general herself, so she set the curiosity aside for the time being and turned to lower herself on the bench. 

   Before she could sit, however, the Romulan woman's strong, slender hand took her at the upper arm.  When she looked up, she saw her smiling a little to lead her to sit the other way around, with her back to the pouring water.  Instantly, she felt a wash of warmth circling from behind to surround her with the help of a small airflow unit in the opposite stones.

   "I will attend the bath, Consort," said the woman, who bent and opened a box with a large sponge and a bottle of liquid, which she applied to the wetted sponge.  "If you would permit my duty to you, which I have been assigned."

   "I can do this myself, too."

   "I have no doubt about your strength and able body, Consort.  I have been informed that your ship survived a great challenge against General Tokarel--who stands among Romulus' most honorable and celebrated commanders.  Rather, to be served is your right, as you have earned this honor and accepted your rank."

   Natasha closed her eyes as she felt the warm water suddenly flow over her, and she realized how exhausted she had to be.  Her whole body seemed to loosen, even as the aroma--that same citrus, now heady and rich in the steam--revived her senses.  The soft sponge emptied what felt like buckets over her, pulling away the grime and her tension.  Still, she was left with the incredible oddness of someone _physically bathing_ her.

   A day ago...

    _Stop that now,_ she ordered herself.  It did not matter what happened a day ago.  Right now was what she needed to face.  _Every moment happens now,_ she prayed to herself, those old mantras that had saved her life again and again, preserved her sanity and kept her in control.  _Keep it tight.  Look at every moment like the first moment..._

   The water poured down her back but was quickly caught at her waist, then brought over her arm as the woman lifted it from her side, and the scent filled her nose.  Her eyes closed of their own volition as her nerves relaxed.

        _"Focus on now, Natasha!"_

   He had pressed this, over and over into her impressionable ears as they hauled away their local salvage to the basement, her small fingers red around the soot-stained rope. 

        _"Now is all you own! Not then--and not tomorrow.  Only now!"_

        _"Because we can control only now."_

   She had learned this reply on the first day, and felt it months later, when she actually knew its use.  He had taken particular pains to teach her well, more than the others, even Marko.  In the soot-streaked lot, he knelt before her, his ruddy, wrinkled face hard in the hateful, yellow glare. 

        _"We can die any moment after now, Natasha."_

        _"Make_ now _important! Use what I have now!"_

        _"Yes! Good girl! Good!"_

   He had patted her arm then gave her a shove to get her back to what was left of the work she could do, and her ill-fitted boots raised dust from the parched cracks...

   So caught up in the memory was she that she hardly realized that the other woman had washed her from head to toe.  Natasha jerked herself back into the present, having almost forgotten where she was and what was happening.  Her pulse jumped as she quickly caught up, and then admonished herself for slipping--again.

    _That cannot happen here,_ she pressed herself.  _Think about this moment.  Act on what you learned.  Remember your responsibilities! Focus on now!_

   And yet she could still see his face, haggard and determined as he wrapped her tiny hands around the makeshift phaser.

        _"You are good girl, smart, sensible girl, like your mother had been.  Do as I tell  
        you and you will live.  You must, Natasha._

   Natasha shook herself, forcing herself to focus on the plain tiled bath floor, and the water flowing into the fine mesh drain...blood pooling on the smooth marble of the Heights....

        _You must survive, no matter the cost.  You must live for them.  Now_  
        show me how you survive the ones who took all you love from you.  Lift!  
        Focus! Aim! --Yes! Now...  Fire!"

   Years later, would she understand his intentions...

   When the Romulan came around to face her, she gestured to her with the same little smile she had worn before.  "I will take care," she said and brought a cloth to rub away the grime, massaging her face gently with her fingertips.  Then she pulled a furry, wide-toothed brush from her apron.  She dipped it under the water flow, applied some solvent and brushed Natasha's hair, leaning her head back to prevent any of the liquid from pouring into her eyes.  Shaking the brush with a few firm jerks, the woman pulled the bulk of the moisture away then straightened Natasha once again.

   The water stopped.

   ...and rain washed the blood away, providing a clean pallet for new victims...

   Suddenly, a large, plush wrap was draped around her.  The chill invaded despite the courtesy, but Natasha forced herself not to shiver and walked out of the bath at the other woman's direction.  Then the Romulan took her by the hand to help her across to what she now supposed was the closet.

   Leading her to stand by the ottoman, the woman walked to the shelf and unwrapped a long, deep green gown from the pile of fabric, which she brought over and placed on the ottoman.  Removing the wrap and turning Natasha around, the woman slipped a wide, sheer fabric around her hips, attaching it behind her.  Before she could wonder, a longer piece of fabric was pulled between her legs and connected in the back.  Then the Romulan woman swiftly slid the gown onto her arms and turned her charge around once more to wrap the dress in place.

   Natasha looked down to watch the work in progress.  The gown, high-necked and long-sleeved, was soft and warm and had the support she needed once tied.  The Romulan woman finished the job by pulling the ties beneath her bust then smoothing the excess fabric down.  Only a pair of slippers remained in the array.  They were padded and warm.

   Considering her charge again, the other woman sighed a little then retrieved a brush for Natasha's hair, which, clean and drying quickly without any product to hold it down, pulled up into light waves around her face.  A few sweeps brought it away from her face, but Natasha could hardly guess what it looked like, except, quite likely, terrible.  She had never liked the way her hair fell--but then, she had never let it grow so long until the last few months, which had distracted her from her preferences.

   Apparently, she would continue to be so distracted--if at any liberty to choose.

   Finished, the woman backed up and bowed her head.  "I hope my efforts are sufficient, Consort," she said softly and turned to set the rest of the fabric into a few of the shelf areas.  "I will be better prepared tomorrow to finish your person properly."

   "I'm sure you did well," Natasha told her.  "Next time, though, I can do it myself.  I only need to know where things are and what to do."

   The woman colored and turned a wide gaze toward the floor.  "Consort, have I failed to perform my duty adequately?"

   "You did nothing wrong.  I don't like to be handled.  I can bathe and dress myself."

   The Romulan woman grew increasingly troubled as Natasha had spoken.  Her posture continued to fall and her hands balled into fists against her ribs.  Even her fair olive complexion seemed to sallow in response.

   Natasha frowned.  "What is it?"

   "The general personally ordered me to this duty," she explained, almost meek in comparison to her easy tones of before.  "If you, my given charge, refuse my service, I would be seen by my superior as unfit and reassigned to lower duty.  The general was most urgent about assigning a woman of moderate education and discretion; I now train diligently to serve you for the general having none other of acceptable origin aboard his ship.  I would be most grateful and honored--unduly, certainly, Consort--if you would show me outstanding generosity and offer me the opportunity to succeed.” 

   Natasha stared at her a full minute as the request registered.  This was nothing like the Romulans she had read about at the Academy:  If appearance and instincts served, this woman was no warrior.  She had toppled from her air of assurance with the simple threat of being denied her assignment, her duty--a duty she had taken on in hopes of achieving something better:  achieving a place of respect.  Natasha knew without argument that she would not live well with herself if she let her pride and paranoia destroy another's chance, despite that person's allegiance and that Natasha could not judge the woman's veracity with any certainty.

   She trusted her instinct, if nothing else, the one thing that had never failed her...

   Natasha processed the mention of the general's orders, remembering his mention to find someone to tend her.  Was this really their way? And then she wondered if this woman's display, too, was just that, and she was simply trying to make Natasha accept her.  It was just as likely she was sincere, and against all she _wanted_ to feel, she again knew she was leaning toward that belief.  She could accept the woman and remain cautious.

   "I respect your need to do your duty," Natasha said at last.  "I will not refuse you."

   "You honor me most generously," the woman said, her every word heavy with relief as she bowed again.  "I am called Ivador," she told her, still very soft but recovering her self-assurance.  "By General Tokarel's contract, I am your personal servant."

   The thought of it was as bizarre to Natasha as it was ironic, and for a moment, she hardly knew what to say to that.  Thankfully, Ivador understood and saved her from having to construct a mannerly reply.  "Until my return, Consort, jolan tru," she said with a touch on her shoulder and another bow of her head.

   A few moments later, she was gone, leaving Natasha to her world again.

 

* * *

   Another era of waiting and pacing followed Ivador's exit.  Knowing how she had been dressed and primped, she knew what would come next.  Part of her wished that door would never open again, the other part wanted to have it done with.  Part of her was curious to know how that would happen and what the Romulan general would expect of her as a woman, while the other part steeled her nerves, preparing to numb her and leaving her completely unconcerned with every possibility.

        _"You are still alive, Natasha, and you have many, many years to live up to your  
        family's reputation."_

        _"And as many years to see how impossible that was."_

   Her fingertips circled atop her crossed arms and she moved around to generate heat without perspiring.  The coolness was annoying her now.  For knowing about the Vulcan climate and the physical similarity to them, she would have thought Romulans would prefer warmth, too.  But again, she could easily consider herself all but entirely ignorant of the race.  Militaristic, strategic, proud:  That was the most of what she could recall from the texts.  Had the bay and corridors been warmer, she would have guessed a psychological purpose.  Had Ivador shown any fewer signs of dread, she would have believed the woman was manipulating her.  Had the general not impressed her with his unique wit, she would not have accepted his offer.

        _"Now, in this life, you might have to do things you do not like, but if it keeps_  
        you alive, do it.  You know your soul.  You know your mind.  You know your  
        heart.  You will lose none of them to survive.  Keep your soul tight in you, do all  
        you must, and regret nothing! Nothing, Natasha! Your open eyes, always, will  
        know truth and never regret!"

        _"I do not forget this."_

   What she knew most just then was that the silence was by far the most affective.  Among humans, silence and solitary were time-honored manipulation devices.  They had been trained to resist the effects in a captive situation, though Klingons rarely took the pains to keep prisoners.  Which were the Romulans like more, or was the quietude a cultural norm? The general and Ivador both spoke softly, as has the aide who had brought her.  The commanders, however, had not.  Why the difference? Did they know about human vulnerabilities? Or care?

        _"It is difficult to see the sun in this pall.  You must hope, Natasha, else none of_  
        our suffering will know justice.  You must always believe that this will be behind  
        us someday."

   Were the others being cared for, as per their agreement? The general, she knew, had none but his word to bind him.  What Natasha had bought the others was a chance.  That was it.  That was all she could do.  That was _what_ she could do...now.

    _Focus on now..._

   Now.  Twenty-two years ago.

   Now was 2344.

   She was seven years old. 

        _"Please do not tell them what I did."_

        _"You were very brave, Natasha.  And now look at all we have! The Dolinas will  
        be so happy with us!"_

   Natasha jerked her head, warding off the sounds...the images...

   Seven...

    _"We go together, Polina."_

        _"Yes.  It is better when we are together."_

   She spun quickly, shaking her head again, drumming her fingers on the soft, heavy cloth.  But then she stopped the usual diversion.  She _had_ to think about that time.  She had to figure out a plan.

   2344.

   In nine years, she would have survived a test of every fiber of her being.  In nine years, she would swear she had no living family, forsaking her eleven year-old sister, who had known nothing.  She had known nothing... 

    _Nothing..._

   A muscle in Natasha's back twitched and she rolled her shoulder to relieve it.

   2344.  In nearly nine years, dying and desperate, she would commit the ultimate sin to escape an ultimate damnation.

   Surviving was easily her best talent.  It had never promised happiness, however.  Pride perhaps...

    _Pride._

   Pausing in her route around the room, Natasha closed her eyes. 

   Twenty-two years into the past and a tactical officer on Starfleet's flagship in a Federation with likely far superior weapons and defense technology...soon to live among a historically warlike people...

   Her gut tightened to recognize that new horror.

    _Before all that is holy, what have I done?_

   If the general could extract information from her, the Federation, instead of being restored, could be destroyed utterly _along with_ the Klingon Empire.  --Not that she cared much for Klingons given her experience, but her distaste was not important.  It was about securing a treaty, securing a future for more than one civilization, and for the people for whom she had given herself.  If she was not very careful, her sacrifice could produce a far worse product than a waste of life and pride, and a far worse future than the one she had known.

   Her lips parted, and she saw her tactical panel before her eyes, and her fingers moving over it.  She had memorized every algorithm, every maneuver, every weakness and weapons configuration.  She had been every bit her respected position because she had _made_ herself so.  She had moulded herself into precisely what she had needed to be.

   The blood drained from her head.

    _What must I do? What must I do with what I have now?_

   Her eyes grew wide to consider anew the heavy table in the center of the room, the roots crawling from the plain woven floor.

   She would need to actively forget everything she had fought and forced herself to learn from the time she filled out her Academy application and forward.  She needed to somehow purge that information from her mind.  Everything she had worked so tirelessly to achieve had to go.  Everything she had taken so much pride in achieving needed to be eradicated...

    _What I knew must go--all of it....  How?_

   After a lifetime prizing her exceptional memory and ability to learn, she now needed to learn how to forget--and quickly.

   Her eyes stung for a moment, but she threw away the remorse and instead fastened herself to the necessity.  It was the smart thing to do.  It was the _correct_ thing to do.  Moreover, she had no use for her Starfleet education there and then--ever again.  The Romulans, however, would have ample use for it. 

        _"Keep it tight, Natasha! Only survival matters! Everything else can be replaced but not  
        your life and the lives of those you protect."_

   Mr. Dolina's face appeared to her again, and his rough words reclaimed their place in the forefront of her thinking.  She could see herself staring up to him as her tears dried in the smoke-hazed sun.  His hazel eyes looked wild, desperate, as he began to repeat those phrases.  Those coarse people had frightened her, but he had been correct then, and he continued to be correct that day.  And as it had when he had pressed his training into her very opposite upbringing, Natasha's mind began to spin around how she should go about such a radical revision of her past and her way of life. 

   Thankfully, remaking herself was not a new concept. She would have to use that skill to an extreme, there.

    _If the general asks, I can say I worked on the Patoro,_ she decided first.  _He would not bother to find Captain Uggar in a sea of unregistered cargo ships.  I will tell him I had worked as a shipment guard.  They are even more common than the ships--and better, it is the truth._

   Her identity was another matter.

   Unthinkingly, Castillo had spoken her Starfleet nickname and the general had latched onto it, so her original plan was moot.  She had to come up with something that would make sense, that she could work with without pausing to make something up in conversation.  She had done this before, too, but the need to do this well was far more grave.  She could not use her real name or the other name because both could be traced to an actual record.  She would have to use something else.

   As she mentally ran down the list in her past, her mind slowed, and without her trying, the voices rose again--distant voices of her fierce possession, warm and wonderful--and equally secret.  But they came to her so clearly they might have spoken yesterday...

        _"Is she a princess?"_

        _"A princess? Why should you think that?"_

        _"She is like the ancient ladies in Tatu's books, with the beautiful clothes and hair.…_  
        I think she is a princess.  Can you make my hair like hers and tie my ribbons so  
        they flow down my back, too?

        _"Oh, Nata! You are as romantic as any of them! Of course, let us see what colors  
        will look prettiest."_

        _"Green, please, Mama! Green!"_

   Natasha's heart slowed as her mother's delighted laughter filled her, piercing her soul, wounding her as it had since the day of Orvo's fall.  And yet, it was an injury she accepted, welcomed when she could and gladly suffered.  All her life, she had been terrified of time and its wear on her memory...

   The remembrance ran on, and the laughter faded, and she circled back again to the idea that had sparked it.

    _Tatyana._

   Her fingers stopped, her steps stopped and the world became very close again.

    _Tatyana._

   It was a terrible idea, inspiring before any commitment a fresh flood of pain, but it was an excellent place to start--a far better base than her original plan had been, in fact...and yet, a terrible idea that struck her heart.  But she cared nothing for herself.  There was no suffering greater than what she had already endured, and her life was all but over.  What would work, what would protect them, what would protect their sacrifice:  That was her sole concern.

   Another flurry of thoughts quickly overshadowed Natasha's lurking pain.  Historical revisions, recalculated birthdates, and pacing...quite of bit of pacing.  It helped fend off the chill of the room, helped ease her nervousness and the energy she had somehow not spent.  Even she must rest, and yet the bed could not tempt her still.  And she wondered, too, how much time had passed that day, and, once again, if the isolation had a purpose.  They could be watching her....

   "Focus," she whispered to herself before she could think not to.

   Natasha drew another long, cooling breath.  Tatyana Puszkarda had been a decade younger than Natasha's father, almost to the day, born in late September.  Doing the math quickly in her head, she nodded to herself at the convenience.  She would have been thirty in Earth Standard Time, had she not been killed at Orvo.  Human colonies recalculated their calendars to match Earth's, so it would be about the same.  Natasha, born in January, had twenty-nine years.

    _Tatyana..._

   Could she do such a thing?

   Certainly, she _should_ not. 

   Tatyana Puszkarda had also been an accomplished, respected woman, a recognizable face and name...in her youth, as Tatyana Fedorivna, and with her married name.  Even living on Turkana for six years after a successful start on Earth, her renown had grown.  No one who came to see her walked away the same person.  Young Natasha had been no exception, and she had known her from her earliest memory.

   Natasha remained very still for several more seconds.  Then...

    _They could not look up Tatyana Ilyivna._

   Completely generic and yet something she could refer to with confidence.  She did not have to give him the surname.  He would not know the difference no matter what she told him.  That could work.  That _would_ work.

   If he asked, she could tell him she was from Turkana because the inter-colony records had been destroyed.  She had learned after her escape that the cursory census taken some months after the fall of Orvo said little about the Cadre populations, and even less about those living outside their strongholds.  Her own people had been wiped from memory.  Only the reworked cadre records were made available--and hardly that.  She could tell him she left there in a very similar manner to how she actually had because there was no way to trace it.  Moreover, the colony's banishment from the Federation should have happened by then.  There was no cause for her to think it had been different.  The war in her timeline did not start officially for a few more years.  The Federation had no more reason to be any more benevolent in an initially similar time.

    _Within two years, the cadres had closed off the colony,_ she reassured herself grimly, certain of that, if anything.  _Turkana has been left in the same manner as all I had known, rotting outward from its belly._

   Though that was not forever the case, she mused, her heart sinking with the reminder.  But then she shook herself off that.  Now was not the time to remember it--and it would not be remembered at all if indeed the proper reality had been restored.

   She felt the tiny prayer for it cross her mind before she shook herself again.  _Focus_ she told herself.  _Look straight ahead, eyes open, back straight.  Keep it tight...  Focus on the plan...._

   There was just enough truth that the general would have little cause to suspect her.  There was enough truth that she could live with her revisions and speak with strength.  All that came before Starfleet would be all she knew, and that, too, would not be too difficult to maintain.  If she slipped, she could fit it in with her cargo duty or some other duty on the ship.

   She was in an incredibly dangerous position there. 

    _What did I think I was doing?_ resumed its circle in her mind, but she continued her path around the room rather than try to answer that ridiculously useless question.

   Natasha's mind worked very quickly, now, with an efficiency that had saved and solidified her after leaving Turkana, and relieved her anxieties as well as ever, too.  Now that she had an objective, all the pain and worry was set aside.  Now, she had a purpose she could follow.

   Tatyana would have to have been educated at Orvo in general studies....  Two years after the destruction of Orvo, she managed to escape and secured a place on the Patoro, working for passage.  She became a cargo guard... 

    _I became a cargo guard..._

   The only failure in her story was an overlying disbelief, which she would have to work diligently to suspend.  Tatyana Puszkarda had been far more cultured, more naturally elegant, than Natasha could ever hope to be, and she would never, _never_ have touched a cargo crate, much less found herself near a storage bay.  She would sooner have donned her cream lace gown and rolled in Uncle Luka's worm garden.

    _How they had chided her!_ she recalled in a flash...

   And she could hear her father's chuckles and see his eyes crinkle with his smile as he wrapped his arms around Tatyana Fedorivna, who bore the indignity with a grudging smile.

        _"You are my favorite little sister!"_

   And everyone laughed, for Aunt Tatyana was the only sister, the junior of two brothers....

   Turning sharply on a toe, Natasha stopped it again and put the memories away with a firm frown.  The silence and inactivity were already getting on her nerves, making her mind work too far into her past, into places that she could not afford when there were other, far more serious things to consider.  Now was not the time to remember, when there was so much to prepare.

   With a deep breath, she turned another circle, flexed her fingers, swung her arms to loosen her shoulders.  She would have done more if she were not ridiculously weighted by the gown she now wore.  Exercising would steady her nerves, and keep her strong and agile during that otherwise unoccupied time.

    _And why should you bother with that?_ she admonished herself.  Mr. Dolina's was not the only brainwashing she had allowed in her life.  But at least _his_ still came in use.  She was not going to need to stay in top fighting form, there, living as someone's kept woman.  She would have to allow her captivity to make her what the general needed, to bide her time to save them.

        _"If you are only a person of worth, a good giving person..."_

   There, the wash of guilt enveloped her, feeling Desha's warnings anew, imagining what her mother would think.

        _"Do you know what that means, Nata? You must always give of yourself, be kind, be  
        good.  A person of worth is a person worthy to stand among others._

   Without thinking, her arms wrapped around herself as her mother's voice filled her again, a dulcet lullaby in every word, and she could feel her warm, gentle hands holding hers...

        _"Always, we must make and create and build, never destroy or take away.  Only_  
        this way are we truly a person.  It is why we exist, our purpose among the  
        living.  Evil takes away good; evil destroys without love.  We must never  
        do such terrible things."

   Always, Natasha had given.  Always, she had tried to be good, always, even when she had destroyed, even when she had taken...so much, without regret, without a shred of remorse...

        _"Tell no one what I have done."_

   And she had survived, and she had learned, grown and made herself anew.  And even when almost everything else had been robbed from her, she had forced herself upright again.  And she returned to her duty, the thing she could affect.  The now as it had been.

   And she lost that, too.

        _"Now is all you own, Natasha! Keep your family in your soul to feed you there--but live  
        now, else lose it all! What have I told you, Natasha? Speak, girl!"_

        _"Keep my family in my soul but live now or I will lose them and my sou!!"_

        _"Yes! Now:  Focus! Aim! --There! Yes! Fire!"_

   At one point, she had begun to write the memories out in a personal file, but not being a strong writer for lack of experience, and feeling her words churn up far more than she was willing to feel at the time, she had instead made notes of events and details that she thought could first be forgotten.  She had collected all she could of the records from Earth about the family members that had been born there, and she had dated her family's lines back as far as the records could reach.  Her memories had remained with excellent clarity, thanks in part to the cards she had guarded with her life.  She included those in the records.

   Natasha wondered if her other self would do the same--and would she be more successful with it.  Would she ever learn what Natasha had? Would she live long enough to? Would she have the freedom to act on all she knew? If she also would live to join Starfleet, how would she respond?

        _"Whether they succeed or not, the Enterprise-C will be destroyed."_

        _"But Captain, at least with someone at tactical, they will have a chance to defend_  
        themselves well.  It may be a matter of seconds or minutes, but those could  
        be the minutes that change history....."

   But where else could she go but Starfleet? There was a reason Natasha had been steered there, why it had been the option that promised any chance of a future to a girl like her and, more importantly, any chance to fulfill what she had intended when she left Turkana.  Or perhaps the bad death had to do with her not finding a way out--or simply getting away only to end up nowhere.

        _"....Guinan says I died a senseless death in the other time line.  I didn't like the sound of that, Captain. ...I've always known the risks that come with a Starfleet uniform. If I'm to die in one, I'd like my death to count for something."_

   Natasha blew a breath and turned to take another lap around the plain, amber room, forcing some noise into the pall by purposefully sliding her new slippers on the stone-like floor--anything to break herself back into the present.  _So much for patriotism,_ she mused with a frown, though that patriotism had effectively sold her case to Captain Picard.

   She _had_ wanted to help the Enterprise C fight well, and she _had_ felt no hesitation to sacrifice herself for a possible peace, but she also knew that her impetus for doing what she had was not about Starfleet.  It was that she could not bear the idea that she, _Natasha_ , must die badly in that "correct" reality, failing herself not once but twice.  That had nothing to do with what she was wearing and she knew it.

        _"I do not choose the last day of my life--and neither will you, when your end comes."_

        _"No one gets to choose for me!  And you should not let that happen, either!  
        You have to fight it!"_

        _"You will know better someday how much you get to choose."_

   And she wondered if she were at all selfless in what she had done, for now she understood the full meaning of the timeline's restoration.  Not only billions of lives had been saved, but thousands...a very certain thousand or three...

    _It is not for me to hope,_ she told herself firmly.  _The mission is not there, and the mission here is changed--_ my _mission has changed.  I will not die as an officer, but I can make my sacrifice meaningful...if that sacrifice ever happens._

   Whatever was behind the long wait, she knew--absolutely settled herself into the plan--that she could not offer any information or reveal herself too much.  He was going to arrive eventually and expect sex.  That was a part of the deal and she had to settle for it no matter how horrible and humiliating it would be.  She had made the deal.  She had known what she had bound herself to...

        _"I cannot lose you, too."_

        _"Someday, Nataliya, you will know that you never will."_

   She blew a sharp breath, stomping her foot for want to curse herself yet again.  Then her stare fell to the floor.  She simply had not wanted them to suffer, they, who had never suffered.  Given a chance just by surviving Narendra, they deserved a chance to go home.  He _deserved a chance...to see his mother again._

   Her shoulders fell...but only briefly.

    _End it now,_ she ordered herself.  _There was nothing between us before and there will be nothing in the future.  You came here for far more than a nice man with nice words, and you know nothing about him.  Remember the duty you agreed to.  Forget Starfleet! Forget the war! Forget the Academy! You are responsible for those nine people; all you do_ now _affects them.  Keep it tight! Remember only your duty! Focus!_

   That did the trick.

   She turned another lap and purposefully wondered if the others had been treated for their wounds by then, and if they had been made comfortable.  She would make a point to ask.  It being a part of the deal, she was in her right to ask, even if he would tell her nothing.

   Just as she worked on the possibilities within that topic, and as she at last had worked off the chill in her endless pacing, she jumped at a sudden whoosh of air behind her.  She swung around to find the doors had opened. 

   General Tokarel strode through them a moment later and stopped a full stride past the table.

   Natasha froze in her steps.

   Immediately, his dark, piercing stare locked onto hers as his chin dipped slightly in acknowledgement.  He was dressed in a black tunic and trousers, a red sash and sandals, now--obviously casual clothing.  His face seemed heavier than it had in the bright aftermath of the battle.  Had he not rested, either? What time was it for him? She thought at first she was silly to wonder, but then she knew she should eventually learn these things as well as she must forget others.

   Three attendants came in after him.  At a turn of his hand, they set the wood table in the middle of the room.  Gold ovals were topped with steel trays; those were covered with fine rectangular plates.  Two implements were set down at the top of each setting, a deep-bowled spoon and a short-pronged fork.  Two thin decanters filled with deep orange liquid were set in the middle alongside round, red-toned glasses.  Red napkins folded in the middle were laid on the edge of each setting.  Then three large dishes were placed in the center and uncovered; the aroma from them blanketed the other odor within seconds. 

   The staff disappeared a moment after finishing their work.

   The general waited for the door to close before addressing her.  "Good evening, Consort.”  His soft baritone was as pleasant as his expression as he answered at least one of Natasha's questions.

   She bowed her head slightly.  _Remember control.  You are in control._   "Good evening, General."

   His eyes flicked over her.  "I see the tevol'oc I found has bathed and dressed you.  I hope her service was adequate, and that you have been made comfortable."

   The room had been too cold and the silence had been increasingly annoying, but she did admit, "It was more than I expected."

   "More, I may ask, meaning finer?"

   "Perhaps."

   "This was pleasurable?"

   She straightened, her caution piquing alongside her curiosity.  _Why does he keep asking this?_   But then, it was not a difficult question.  "Yes."

   "Excellent.”  He gestured to the table.  "We will eat, then, and speak to each other privately, if you please."

   "I have a choice?"

   She instantly regretted her words.  This was no place or time to pick a fight. 

   Interestingly, the general looked mildly amused by her challenge.  "I have no interest in using force or other means of manipulation with you," he informed her.  "I have matters to discuss with you.  Either you will respond or you will not.”  Moving around her, he finished to her ear, "However, already I see it is unlikely you will remain silent."

   She colored.  Then she felt his hand enclose around her upper arm--not roughly at all, she realized after she stiffened.

   "I please you, Consort," the general explained and gently guided her around the table to her chair.  "It is customary."

   His hand drifted up then off her arm as soon as she sank into the cushion.  "Is it also customary to not bathe myself?"

   "Certainly you are _able_ ," he replied, coming back around her to take his seat.  "However, you have no need, when there are staff to serve you and provide you with all you require.  I provide them for you as is likewise customary for a woman of your rank and standing."

   She frowned at the reminder of her drastically revised career, but the rest was not so familiar.  "My standing?"

   "You are consort to a general," he said, highlighting the phrase with an air of importance.  "There are those of lesser rank and family who can afford to keep a companion.  You, however, have chosen to serve a high field commander of spotless record and service to the Empire.  While wealth is secondary among us, I have a great deal of it.  You will want for nothing, and all who know of you will know that."

   Natasha suppressed a shudder.  She hardly knew what to think of the prospect, but the closest word she could formulate was awkward, and certainly _not_ wanting to be known by _anybody_.  She looked at the food.

   "Yes, serve yourself, Tasia," the general offered as he reached out to a dish of soup, a creamy concoction with large red and yellow pieces.  "I commanded dishes to be prepared that would be mild to a human palate, as I can be assured you are unfamiliar with our food.  I hope it is a pleasant introduction."

   Though it did smell unusual, the heavy, savory odor was not unpleasant, and Natasha suddenly realized that her last meal had been over a full shift before she had left her ship.  Not to say that a more recent meal would have assisted any aversions.  Starvation in her youth quickly trained her to appreciate variety.  And she considered again how the general was showing her so immediately that she should be anything _but_ starving or impoverished.  _Will he use his kindness as a tool?_ she wondered, knowing as soon as the thought formed that it was a stupid question.

   The general served his plate with some bread and what looked like a piece of meat.  Then he gestured to hers.  "Have you no appetite?" he queried.  "You have not eaten in a half-day."

   Natasha shook her head, to him and of her thoughts.  "No, I am hungry," she said, then belatedly added, "Thank you.”  With that, she reached out and took a little from each dish and a half-ladle of soup.

   She could feel his eyes on her, studying her, waiting for her.  Natasha sighed.  After dinner, he would want to complete the terms of their agreement.  She chose not to guess about how that would be, or if it would be very different.  He would claim her in what ways a Romulan should and she would bear it. 

    _And you will adapt, as you always have,_ she told herself firmly.  _You will give him what he wants._

   When the general began to eat, so did she, starting with the soup.  She breathed into the taste at first.  The soup was a creamy sort, almost seafood-like with a lasting tang and spiciness that was not uncomfortable but very strong.  Natasha vaguely remembered having something vaguely like it on Earth.  Glancing to see the general do it, she cautiously dipped the bread in the soup and tasted it.  That was very good, though it too had a peppery aftertaste in addition to the rest.  When the general poured their glasses, she reached out and took hers.  Sniffing it briefly, she noted a deep, fruity smell and tried it.  It had a heavy berry flavor, but with the tartness of cider, and the feeling of it stayed long after she swallowed.  Breathing the aroma into her after that sip, she glanced at the general again.  His lips were upturned.

   "You care for it?" he asked.

   "Yes."

   "This shurrat is tapped at my farm in Rul'siat," he said then gestured to her again.  "It is a delicacy.  Please, enjoy it.  I will not interrupt you further."

   Natasha nodded her thanks, though she realized it was probably alcoholic and should take very little of it--a shame, because she had not lied.  It was delicious.  She took one more small sip then set it aside.  "But you wanted to talk."

   He swallowed and gave himself a proper moment to enjoy it before replying, "Our arrangement is unaltered.  I suspected you would be curious about details within it, however."

   "What details could there be aside from your word?"

   His brow flicked up in time with the corners of his mouth.  "Repercussions of our agreement."

   "Such as?"

   "Emotional repercussions, psychological, physical."

   "You wonder how I will be affected?" Natasha asked, not hiding her disbelief.

   "Relatively inexperienced with humans, I of course researched what I could of the ship's remaining medical and psychological database for, yes, your benefit.  There was little more than that to peruse, in fact.  The officers made excellent work of purging the ship's database.  Perhaps you were witness to this?"

   "No.  I got there only a couple minutes before everything shut down.”  Natasha dipped her bread again, her face set as straight as before thanks to years of practice.  He could be baiting her.  "Maybe there's a protocol built into their systems."

   "Perhaps.  If so, it is a prudent directive.”  The general paused to drink again, then continued, "I have little use for the Starfleet records; however, I found the medical database informative, and I have transmitted the files to the medical personnel at my compound in the event they are needed again, for you, and for the others."

   At the mention, Natasha took the chance to ask as neutrally as possible, "Are they well?"

   "They have been treated and have bathed; I believe they are sleeping at present."

   "Thank you."

   "I honor my word, Consort, in trust that you will do the same.”  A pause, then the general noted, "You seem rather concerned about strangers, however."

   "If you read about humans, you would know that we try to protect life where we can, whether or not we know them personally."

   "Yes, interpersonal sentiment could be gleaned from the details.”  Again, he seemed amused, and he sliced into another portion of bread.  "Indeed, you have lived up to that model, and, yes, I have given some thought to how our arrangement may affect you.  I do not desire you to be miserable; rather the opposite is true.  While I cannot imagine you happy in having agreed to revise your life as you must for the sake of any of your kind, I would like to see you appreciate the comfort I will provide in exchange for your duty."

   "But not love," Natasha stated, punctuating her own preference for its avoidance.

   "Certainly not!" the general agreed, ironically to her surprise as well as her relief.  "I will never require nor desire love from you.  --You must not be among them, but some do equate copulation with such affection.  Perhaps you believed I might think otherwise? Be at ease, Consort.  I require only your duty, respect, frankness and adherence to the rules of my house."

   She raised her chin, noting what he had not mentioned, "And my body."

   The general seemed to understand something there, too, as he peered at her askance a moment before responding.  "While I will never advance myself upon you against your will, I expect you to carry yourself as what you have pledged, a consort to a Romulan general, and to perform the duties of a consort, which are, namely, giving me companionship and welcoming me sexually at my leisure."

   She nodded to accept his directness and to hide her disgust with herself at opening herself to such a correction.

   "I saw in our first conversation that you are a practical, sensible creature," he went on.  "I will not insult you with euphemisms or deception.  It is not worth my time or dignity to initiate intrigues with any member of my house, unless I suspect their treachery."

   Though his explanation had both impressed and discomforted her, she admitted, "I appreciate that."

   "Yes.”  He drew another couple of spoonfuls of soup then wiped his mouth with the slender napkin he had laid beside his bowl.  "I will allow you adequate time to accustom yourself to your rank and my culture, and to performing your duty without hesitation.  Eventually, I would hope you are able to experience pleasure, Tasia, for in your pleasure, you should experience greater satisfaction, and I will benefit in turn.”  He drew a long drink that time as she did the same.  "Meanwhile, the others from the Federation ship will continue to be well looked after.  I have made arrangements with staff and officers I trust implicitly.  Upon our return to the homeworld, they will be installed on the farm at my complex in Rul'siat."

   "Per the agreement, too, yes," she said, setting her glass aside.  She was certain now that it was a very sweet wine.  After nearly a full glass, she had begun to taste the alcohol and feel her head become a little heavy.  She took another piece of bread to dampen the effect.  Much as a little intoxication might be helpful, she must avoid anything that might alter her senses, and there particularly, she did not want to inadvertently say something dangerous.  "So your home is a farm?"

   "It is a compound," he corrected her, "a longtime holding of my family.  There is a large farm dominating the eastern half.  It sits adjacent to my family home, where your apartment will be arranged.  Across a mall beside the length of the home sits the farm staff barracks and housing for the personnel who serve upon my ship; behind that are training fields and buildings."

   "So Rul'siat is a military center," Natasha deduced.

   "In fact, Rul'siat is quite rural," he told her, "located on the northernmost continent of Romulus.  Only a small population lives there, and fewer still choose it for scenic diversion, which we denizens prefer.  Though, my sister does find it difficult to hold gatherings there regularly...which _I_ prefer."

   Natasha glanced up at his note of humor.  "You're not much for parties?"

   "I am not a man of the Capital," he confirmed.  "I prefer the vast countryside of my boyhood, for both its solitude and great beauty.  I want only for personal companionship.  The vapid relations encountered in social 'gatherings' do not appeal to me.  I would rather scale Mount Gorvu with but a blade, a firestarter and my feet solid beneath me, moving me to the great heights above the valley and my prey."

   Natasha's back straightened unconsciously.  The glamour of an occasion had always fascinated her, a trace of her girlhood that she had secretly, though ignorantly, coveted when she had returned to the paradisaical Earth.  She was far more familiar with the general's idea of satisfaction, however, and her heart thrummed, understanding his passion for being subject to oneself and the elements alone.  But then she collected herself.  Obviously, _she_ would not be climbing mountains or handling any more blades than those at the dinner table.  "So you and your sister live at your home.” 

   "At the compound, leading my staff and my personnel, yes.”  He cut another piece of bread and mopped up the remainder of his soup with it.  "I have a wife whom you will not meet and who has never lived with me.  Ours is a socially advantageous marriage, and while amiable, she prefers the capital and its society.  I am content to give her that and a generous purse, as she is content to tolerate my complete freedom, to remain at my compound or upon my ship, playing the ceaseless puzzle with enemies both alien and local.  It has been an excellent arrangement."

   "What does your wife do?" Natasha asked, privately displeased with his statements.  She did not like thinking she would be in the position of coming between another woman and her husband, no matter what the general claimed about their relationship.

   "She is a professor of political history," the general answered, his brow flicking up briefly.  "And what did you do, Tasia? What is your education?"

   "I was a cargo guard," she told him.  Her eyes turned down purposefully as she reached out for a small piece of meat, studying it when she brought it to her plate.  She could not tell what it would taste like.  "For a while."

   "Did you work on starships?"

   Her lips flicked up.  "No.  I worked on a small tradeship with a twenty person crew.”  Slicing a portion of the meat, she cautiously took the bite.  Blinking with surprise, she sliced another portion.

   The general did the same, waiting until she had finished half of her portion to ask, "What was your duty there, as cargo guard?"

   "Just that," Natasha told him, but then reminded herself to elaborate.  He had asked for details--and he would ask for more if she failed to satiate his curiosity.  "My job was to communicate with vendors and report to my captain, to check inventories and source identifications, and to make sure nothing happened when cargo was going in or rolling out."

   "Did you do it _well_?" he queried.

   Her stare jumped up to meet his, but found the same mildly curious look he had owned before.  He did not seem to be denigrating her.  Still, she knew her responsive pride was real when she answered, "I was lucky to find work there.  I did the best I could until I was released a few months ago."

   "Why did they no longer require your services?"

   "They started dealing in materials that required less security...and I needed to do something else, so I didn't ask for a transfer to another position."

   "Routine tired you?"

   "No, I like routine.  I had learned everything I could learn there.  It was time to move on."

   The general hummed to himself then nodded.  "So you found work elsewhere?"

   "No.  I couldn't find anything that I wanted to do--and could do, not immediately.”  She shook her head, shrugging.  "Anyway, that's when I met Captain Garrett, and why I was given passage on the Enterprise, through her...”  There, she paused to offer a sigh of mourning, and not one entirely for affect.  "She was a good person."

   "An admirable warrior who gave me excellent challenge," Tokarel added.  "I will not disgrace her or her crew in my reports, however they were unsuccessful in thwarting the mission I had been given."

   Natasha resisted the urge to ask him about Narendra, why his people had attacked it, what they had hoped to gain.  She had not had the opportunity to analyze those potential gains before leaving her Enterprise.  From a cursory view, she knew it _was_ an excellent tactical position to claim; however, neither the commanders nor the general mentioned taking it over.  Rather, they had left survivors who would talk about their experience and the deaths.  That told Natasha that the Romulans had a plan; they were probably inciting a particular Klingon or Klingon group to lure them out.  Having made her career out of doing the same, she wished she could bring up _that_ topic and discuss their purpose. 

   Then she reminded herself it should not be her business--should never have been any business of her to have even met a Klingon--and she should show little curiosity in his purposes.  So she merely nodded in an added show of respect for Captain Garrett and reached for her glass.  Belatedly, she realized that it was nearly empty.

   Tokarel reached for the decanter and filled her glass halfway.  "Is your family aware of your travels?" he asked.

   Natasha shook her head and drew another sip of wine, obliged to take at least a little more.  "I have no family," she replied and set into her bread and soup again to dampen the drink.

   "No family--none?" Tokarel responded, surprised for the first time since entering the room.

   "Yes, none.”  She studied his expression.  His widened eyes and raised brow looked unnatural.  "You don't believe me?"

   He leaned back again, regarding her anew.  "Forgive me, Tasia.  Perhaps I take too great advantage of my large family.  I cannot imagine being devoid of all my relations with such assuredness as you claim.”  He set down his glass.  "How long have you been alone?"

   Natasha blinked and added quickly from the year she left...  "Thirteen years."

    _Thirteen years,_ she repeated to herself.  _It should feel correct, but it must be wrong.  I could close my eyes and touch them..._

   "Do you not regret being without relations?"

   "Regretting their absence will never bring them back," Natasha replied.  "But if you mean to ask if I have missed them, then yes, I do."

   The general bent his head respectfully.  "I admire your strength, Tasia.” 

   At that, he let the room fall silent for a few minutes after that, during which time they continued with their meal.  Natasha nearly cleared her plate of the entree, successfully avoiding the wine that time, though she did feel the urge to wash down the heavy, lingering flavors.

   "I will assign the tevol'oc called Ivador to be your nih'orr," Tokarel said, breaking the silence a moment after she set down her spoon, "and she will serve you entirely, if it is your desire to keep her."

   "Yes," Natasha said immediately, glad to change the topic and quick to recall Ivador's desire to have that service; then she backed down a little.  His easy temperament, while not an act, she suspected, masked his subtle efforts to figure her out.  It was impressively deceiving without much effort on his part.  "I mean, I like her."

   "She will be more than a servant.  She will be your companion while in your employ and responsible in part for your well being.  You do not need to choose her simply because she has been here."

   "I don't know what to expect in someone like that, but she seems patient and anxious to do her duty."

   "Then you would like to keep her?"

   "I would like to give her a chance."

   "You want her, then."

   Natasha nodded quickly, feeling her annoyance at his repetition.  _Are the translators not functioning properly, or is he testing me?_ "Yes, I want her."

   "Very well," he finally relented.  "I will grant her the contract.  I will give you the honor of informing her."

   Hoping suddenly that her instincts about the alien servant were correct, Natasha sopped up the remainder of her soup with the last strip of bread and ate it.  Eyeing the remaining shurrat, she sighed silently to herself and decided she would rather dissipate the heat of the soup and gravy than suffer it the rest of the night.  The wine was not so terribly mood altering as it was making her body tingle and her eyes a little sleepy.  But then, she had been tired before.  Her thoughts had remained sharp and her speech unaffected, so she sipped slowly, trying not to watch the general quietly finish his meal as he took another full glass of wine in the meantime.  Silently, she frowned at his intake, but then, she had to admit it tasted very good, and he had probably been drinking it all of his life.  His movements and demeanor were no different to when he had first approached her in the cargo bay.

   Meanwhile, she could feel a clock ticking in her head.  It certainly was quiet enough in there again that she could hear her blood rushing. 

   She jerked when the door swished open behind them and she cursed at herself for it.  She did so again when she glanced up to see the general watching her reactions.  Stubbornly, she held his gaze as a few staff removed the dishes and wiped down the table, leaving it shining in the warm light.  At a flick of the general's fingers, they left the wine and the glasses and quickly removed themselves. 

   The general leaned back in his seat for nearly a minute, relaxing against the cushions, his fingers woven upon his thigh.  Natasha said nothing, but ran her finger along the bottom of her wine glass.  Glancing down, she remarked for the first time at the way the light shone through the liquid, like a gem.

   Tokarel let the silence run a minute more, then finally he said, "It may be now timely to take it under to, Tasia.” 

   Natasha blinked and looked at him.  "Excuse me?"

   He sighed.  "My error.  Take it down along."

   Natasha furrowed her brow, noticing that his voice had changed slightly with his words, as well.  "What are you speaking?"

   "I try once with addition," he said then thought a moment more before attempting again.  "Get it behind with."

   "Get it _over_ with," she corrected, smiling inwardly.  Expressions in Standard indeed could be tricky.

        _"And get the 'h' out of your nose! It doesn't sound like that!"_

        _"It sounds better in Unified way!"_

   The general chuckled, dipping his chin.  "'Over' with," he said, then continued, his accent returning to normal.  "You will laugh at me as my comrades do--they for my troubling with unnecessary tongues and you for the result of my efforts.  I should cease risking embarrassment."

   "It's admirable that you try, especially when others refuse to bother."

   He bowed his head in acknowledgement.  "Thank you, Tasia.”  He gestured at her glass.  "Have you taken enough wine? Would you like more?"

   "I'm fine, thank you.  I'm not used to alcohol."

   "It is not a powerful wine, only very flavorful."

   "Yes.  But I am finished."

   "Hmm.  Very well.”  He flicked a half circle in the air with his index finger.  "Please, Tasia, come before me.  Let me see you."

    _And that was what he had been trying to say,_ she frowned.  His personality and lilting baritone could divert her attention from his process.  She would need always remember that.

   "Tasia," the general repeated softly.

   She looked at him.

   "Please come before me so that I may see you."

   Natasha found herself frozen.  Not for fear, but... 

        _"Maybe you'll improve with practice...."_

   She continued to stare at him.

   "Have you redecided?" he queried. 

   "Redecided?"

   "Yes.”  His relaxed posture did not change when he added, "Consort, I did not need to make our arrangement at such great expense and possible humiliation.  My comrades and superiors were all too happy to stage a public execution, and may yet if that is your desire.  I would allow you your choice, of course, with no additional dishonor and certainly without insult on my part.  However, I would only ask you inform me now of your preference."

   Natasha shook her head.  "No.  I haven't changed my mind, just that...  This is new, and not something I thought I would do for a living, with someone I had only just met."

   His brow rose, and for a moment, he seemed displeased.  "Tasia, are you untouched as a woman?"

   "No," she answered, flushing.  Wildly, she shoved the resulting thoughts and questions away and added, "That much is not new.  I just...needed a moment to collect myself.” 

   "Very well," Tokarel replied, satisfied.  "You will find that I am a patient man among a patient people.  However, I am also this ship's commander and will eventually be needed elsewhere.  You will be called to _your_ accepted duty eventually as well, Tasia.  I only suggested that it be committed to now rather than left to be dreaded another day."

   Much as she respected sense and honesty, the general's words struck her soundly.  She felt she understood what she knew of him as of that conversation; however, he saw into _her_ person far too well, and that the touch of lightness he had added to it was inappropriate, she felt.  But that likely had a purpose, too--one that indeed served him, as it had restored her focus and awareness of him.

   Letting the silence stand a moment more, his lips at last turned up when she looked to him.  Turning his gaze studiously, he said, "I give you the choice.” 

    _Business.  This is a duty, work.  Your body is nothing but a shell.  Stay fast to that purpose.  Stay in control._

   Natasha at last drew a breath, pressed her hands on the table to stand then walked around the table to stop at his side.  Then she looked down into his deep brown eyes, maintaining every inch of visible calm even as her heart rate had doubled.

    _You have fought battles with half-dead weapons arrays, five Birds of Prey swarming and a battle cruiser racing to break the shields to their glorious death, and you were not so insecure!_ she admonished herself.  _Keep it tight, Natasha.  It will be finished sooner if you do not dwell, and he is correct that you should do this now._

   If the general noticed her rush of thoughts and self-instilled commands, he made no show of it.  Instead, he said, "I expect you always to tell me, Tasia, if what I do brings you any displeasure.  Romulans are well enamored of their egos; however, I prefer my ego to be deserved.”  With that, steadily holding her gaze, he placed his hands on her hips to guide her to stand before him, sliding his chair back slightly to give her more room.

   The first thing she noticed was that his hands were warm--enough that she could feel it easily through her dress as he brushed over her ribs and back.  She heard his chair slide again, and a moment later, he rose before her.  He was at least fifteen centimeters taller than she was, and he smelled of something rich and spicy, much like the food, but...sweeter, deeper.  The scent all but overpowered her, distracting her as much as his height had put her in a place she was equally unused to.  Never had she imagined herself as petite, until then.  But despite all that might have proven overbearing, his touches were respectful just then, soft and careful.

   Bending, he smelled the skin at her neck then let his lips and tongue touch it briefly.  She forced herself not to twitch or draw away as he pressed to the place with his cheek.  The lips that had so curiously responded to her before closed softly over that spot, not a kiss, but a completion of that taste.  Whatever he had taken in, he seemed to like, for he hummed a little and his hands tightened around her waist for a moment.

   Meanwhile, Natasha's hands hung at her sides.  She hardly knew what to do with them except keep them out of the general's way.  She certainly would not return his attentions, having already decided that she would not help him unless he ordered it outright.

   Despite the inactivity, she began to feel warmer, though her skin remained cold.  Was it the wine? Or it could be his hands, now stroking her gently, moving around her hip to the front of her thigh, as the other caressed her shoulder...first at the neck, then slipping beneath the fabric... 

   It was probably the wine, and she cursed herself for not being careful.  It could have been drugged.  But then, anything on her plate could have been...

    _Focus.  Control._

   His lower hand moved up her side and squeezed at the fabric....

   With another brush and a sweep of his fingers against her skin, she felt cool air wash over her chest and belly, her shoulders and arms.  A moment later, her gown fell away, and then her undergarment, leaving her naked before him.

   Natasha was too shocked to be embarrassed, and he gave her no time to start tardy.  Standing so close that his heat radiated out to her, he began to stroke her body with maddening gentleness.  Lowering himself to caress her thighs, he slipped his nose and lips along her shoulder, and then over her breasts.  Brushing a nipple with a cheek, he seemed to consider it for a moment before his lips parted to take it into his mouth.

   Natasha pulled a breath at the sensation, her hands balling up even while she felt a twinge in her gut.  The feeling left her even angrier.  Nervous and stiff as she was, she knew she could feel what he was doing, even when she knew she should feel nothing and instead pretend her responses...

   His tongue flicked over the stiffened flesh...

   What he was doing...  Natasha closed her eyes as a sick feeling flooded her.  She had accepted the deal, made the choice, and now he was committing her to it.

    _You knew this was going to happen, and he said he had researched the database on humans.  He learned what to do and is doing it.  Focus.  Use what you have.  Adapt.  Control._

   She shuddered as his fingers slipped between her legs but managed to hold still.

    _Let him complete this..._

   Everything she had done to get away from Turkana, make something of herself, and now...

        _"No way she'll get on without being somebody's whore."_

   His other hand circled her back, warm, soft, absolutely certain of its position at that very place and time...

    _Choice..._

   And she remembered the other crew, and Richard--and then she pushed the thought straight back out.  There was only so much misery she was going to allow herself.  She made her choices for good reasons, and now she must let the general assure her part of the deal.  It _had_ been her choice, and she had made it.

   His lips touched her other nipple and her breath caught.  Her fingers jerked to hold on to...something.

   She needed to hold onto something.

        _"You can't stand me touching you, can you?"_

        _"I'm just not used to it."_

   His hands slid under her buttocks and he pressed himself to her.  Gasping at the pressure, the silkiness of his clothes and the heat beneath them, she then felt her feet leave the ground and the table slide under her thighs.  _Here? On the table?_ Natasha, now surprised by his choice, realized that Romulans might do things very differently, indeed.  She had hardly made a guess at what would come next before he faced her again, touching her cheeks with his slender fingers.  They were soft, matching his expression as he traced her neck and shoulders. 

   His touches lowered to encircle her arms, slipping down to her elbows.  Pressing there, he led her to recline on her forearms.  His hands moved slowly down her sides as he moved gradually down.  Turning his head, he again pulled a nipple into his lips; hardening it with his tongue, he sucked it firmly for a moment then released it to reclaim the other.

   Natasha's eyes closed, but that only magnified the sensitivity as he pulled at the stiff flesh then nibbled it lightly with his teeth, shooting a charge down her body and forced a stifled sigh from her lips as his hands smoothed around her waist and over her belly.  Then he released her to raise himself before her and draw a slow, heavy breath.

   Her mouth closed tightly.  _Now,_ she resolved herself.  _Bear it, and it will end soon._

   She felt his fingers dip into her slipper and ease it off.  Then she felt the soft, plush armrest under her foot.  Then he removed her other slipper and set that foot on the other armrest. 

   Again, Natasha breathed to slow her rabbiting heart.  Now she knew it _was_ better they did this now, because she was starting to feel stupid.  It eventually would be little more than sex--nothing that she had not done, and certainly with no more feeling...aside from panic, fear and, later, awkwardness.  --But maybe _that_ would be better, for the general seemed intent on making it entirely comfortable and...

   Her breath left her again when she felt pressure again between her legs.  But it was not large, and it was not rough in the least.  Before she could think to avoid the view, she looked down as the general placed his fingers on her flesh and slid them downward.  Gently spreading her, he teased around her, taking his time and pressing so softly that it was as stimulating as nearly imperceptible.  Then he rotated his touch, pressed and pulled, looking for something, it seemed. 

   He found it.  Gasping, Natasha's hands flattened on the table as another shot of sensation made her tighten and jerk to pull her legs together.  Now she knew precisely what he was doing:  getting her ready.  Without question and despite her every expectation, it was working.  Her muscles twitched and her body grew as warm as he was.  She gritted her teeth.  It was wrong that he would do this to her, explore her like a project or an alien fascination.  It was wrong that her body would betray her in the bargain. 

        _"The body knows nothing.  It is a tool, a carrier.  Your soul, Natasha, is  
        what is important..."_

   If she lost control, he would win.  If she didn't keep it together...

   When she tightened and closed her eyes, the general stopped.  Then his hand slid down her inner thigh.  Her eyes blinked open to find him gazing kindly at her.

   "Do no be ashamed of a perfectly natural physical reaction, Tasia," he whispered, leaning down to make himself nearer to her, resting on his elbow at her side.  "Your body does not lie to you--or to me.  Moreover, withholding your pleasure will only make matters more unpleasant for you, when again, I would rather hope to make our arrangement pleasing to us both.”  His fingers took another turn at her, forcing her muscles to contract and her breath to catch as she held his stare.  "You are alien to Romulus; however, you seem to own great sense, so consider this:  Why should you make your decision difficult now? Accept the pleasure you naturally must experience in order to prepare for the remainder of our work together.  Breathe...and take what I give to you.  You are beautiful and intelligent, and there is no shame in your place, Tasia.”  His long, warm hand slid under her back, steadying her to repeat, "There is no shame in your place."

   She felt his sincerity, but she felt the shame nonetheless--shame, indeed, for that natural response, and shame that he would see into her so easily.  And yet, once again, she did understand him.  It did make sense to let go, to accept what he gave.  She would be there having to do that for the foreseeable future, and already his efforts made her body react in a way that in any other situation would have been desirable...  Maybe it _was_ the wine and his closeness, but it felt several degrees warmer in there, and the pressure inside of her grew as her clitoris stiffened.  His other hand stroked her back now, too, supporting and comforting, and so warm, like a balm.... 

   His other hand's work became more precise, knowing its direction now and how she should react.  Dipping a finger into her, Tokarel released a pleased hum.  His caressing fingers found some of the moisture then continued to caress her as before.

   Natasha exhaled slowly as the sensations grew stronger.  _This is your duty.  Let him do as he will.  Know you are able to feel… Know you should feel…his attention, what he gives..._

   Her anger at herself, at him, at the absolutely useless, doubled beneath the expanding sensations, in that dim room, dead silent save the sound of those ministrations, so patiently applied, and her slight breaths, shortened as she began to obey her self-given demands.  His eyes became sleepy as he watched his work; then, pressing his lips together momentarily, he pressed two fingers inside of her while quickening his touches outside.

   She gasped aloud that time, arching instinctively when he circled her flesh then began a rhythmic strumming with his thumb.  Stiffening, a shudder built up inside of her.  But then it died when he briefly stopped, and she realized that she both dreaded and wanted what was going to happen if he continued.

   Tokarel did just that.  Resuming his pace, he spread his fingers over her warming back, pressing her up to allow him another suckle of her breast.  And she knew the warmth felt good, the touches comforting, his lips and tongue equally stimulating.  His thumb again flicked over her clitoris, making her jump for it having grown so sensitive.  She could hear every move, every taste, every slip of her hand or shift of fabric as he adjusted his position beside her on the warm wooden table.  He pulled at her nipple then caressed it with his cheek; then his fingers pinched her clitoris and flicked again.

   Tense, trembling, relieved with the steady warmth, Natasha again breathed and willfully relaxed her leg muscles.  The moment she did, her back arched and her insides fell apart as the buildup ricocheted through her core.  Before she realized what had happened, she sucked a sharp breath and fell off her elbows.  Reclined fully on his hand now, she felt every muscle below her belly contract and surge with an unbelievable release.  To her greater surprise, she felt herself instinctively sink into it.  That natural reaction _was_...pleasurable...and frightening--and completing.  Her head swam, unable to think for the moment of anything but that rippling sensation and the incredible warmth that overcame her.

   As she sorted out the myriad sensations and reactions, the general continued to stroke her, eking every shudder and grind from her body that he could until she could only lay twitching, her arms flung over her head, her eyes closed tight, lips parted to breathe.

        _"Our work together,"_ he had said.  She had lowered herself to everything she had avoided...and he was determined enough to do it efficiently...and make her enjoy it.  _"I would rather hope to make our arrangement bearable."_   That new duty...not yet completed. 

    _And what will_ that _be like?_ she wondered, now grimly curious as his hot, wet fingers finished their work.  In the same stead, she almost wished he were a monster and had hurt her, or simply had gotten what he wanted and left her to clean up, for both were tried territory for her.  Maybe that would happen another day.

   She did not like surprises.  She did not want to wait for that change.

    _That would be another day, if ever, and you have no control over that.  Look at what you have now._

   When she dared to open her eyes that time, she found him staring at her with obvious appreciation.  Pulling his hand from below her back, he touched her face.  Gently, he removed his fingers from her vagina and cupped it softly, stroking her softly with the palm of his hand.  She drew a deep breath, still swollen and sensitive, though all she wanted to do was pull her legs together, squeeze the muscles that had been worked so effectively...and sleep.  Suddenly, she felt as though she could sleep for a day.

   "Most interesting," he breathed, "and effective.  I will remember how it pleases you."

   Before she could formulate a ridiculous response to that, he stood and tugged the sash on his clothing.  Sliding his hands around her knees, he pulled just enough that her buttocks were just over the edge of the table.  With another gentle stroke of her inner thighs to help her relax again, his hands slipped around to her hips.

   She felt tears in her eyes when she felt him move inside of her, and she drew her gaze to the ceiling, the recessed lights in the light brown.  Romulan physiology felt different and much warmer, but he was no greater in size than what she remembered.  It worked in much the same way in the end, too, she knew in a few seconds, when he rocked his hips and his length filled her, then retracted.  His hands, free again, moved lightly over her belly and breasts then around, bracing her then releasing, and then again... 

   Minutes passed, and he continued his motions as she focused on keeping her legs relaxed.  The strange fullness loosened as the slickness grew, and she could feel the friction become a growing heat.  His hands moved around and lifted her lower back a little, helping him to press fully into her before releasing her to caress her again.  Her eyes fluttered closed as the feeling began to ricochet over her muscles.  _A natural reaction,_ she repeated to herself.

   As she began to wonder how long Romulan men required in sex, the general hummed a bit and leaned over her.  She felt his breath on her shoulder as he ground deeply against her.  But then he rose.

   Natasha jerked.  His fingers had touched her cheek.  To her great unease, he was looking at her and moving in her at the same time, and his expression had suffused with his passion.  Yet even then, he paused when he knew he had her full attention, and he threaded his fingers into her short hair, gently cupping her head before moving it down her neck and across her shoulder.

   "I know this is difficult now," he whispered, "but when you are better able, I want you to look at me when we come together.  I want to see your eyes as much as you can bear to be admired."

   What could she do with that but blink? So she did, and, pleased, he resumed his pace, building up a fluid rhythm that was neither rough nor mild.  Relinquishing herself once more to the simple duty of taking it, Natasha let him to it, and she felt her nerves once again begin to respond to the stimuli, the pressure inside and out.  _My body will not lie,_ she remembered, Tokarel's words, again, so interestingly in line with all that she knew.

   But then, was it not a vehicle now? Was it not serving its purpose, responding to all that was given? It was not her soul, but that shell that spoke to her, and made her know what he had made her do....

   And yet, she _knew_ what it felt, and now should not ignore or set it aside.  The general expected her pleasure, apparently wanted it and explained the practical use of it.  And so she would feel it, though she would feel nothing more.

   And she did feel that much, the warmth and friction, the sensation of something, more than she had known.

   It was much more than what she had felt before.

   And her soul...knew it.

        _"I have not spent all this time with you to turn out a whore."_

   But she had...she had...and she had felt it...and would again...was again...

   The wet, rhythmic sounds began to fill the air around her, joining their soft breathing and little gasps.  Her skin grew moist beneath him as his body had grown hot.  His scent had grown stronger, too--that earthy spice, encompassing but not intoxicating, filling her, covering her, like his heat, his touch.  His hands continued to move over her, circling, gently pinching, tracing and caressing every centimeter in his reach.

    _Will it always be like this?_ she wondered woozily, traitorously hoping it would.

   She could live like that, even in disgrace.  She could feel like that.

   They betrayed her, those most primal needs, ones she had so lacked, had even avoided, but now drank deeply and felt so keenly:  Touching.  Warmth.  Pleasure.

    _I drank the wine,_ she thought, a useless complaint now as she reached out to hang onto the edge of the table.  Secured, he met her fully in every thrust.  Her legs began to tremble, and she again relaxed them, letting herself feel, arching more to feel... 

   She barely knew what that feeling was, but it was...

   Over.

   Natasha shook her head, confused at first.  They had been there so long that she had lost any idea of it ending, and now...

   With a long inhale, the general climaxed.  She felt his penis stiffen completely inside of her, releasing a gush of warmth, then slowly fade away.  His hands firmed around her hips when he shuddered.  Suddenly he reached up and touched her face once more, reclaiming her full attention.  His eyes were sleepy, and his lips were turned up, and yet none of his presence had waned in his pleasure. 

   "Thank you, Tasia," he whispered and moved his other hand down her trembling leg, securing it.  There, he rested, allowing her to settle, too.  After several minutes, where their breathing was the only break in that cavernous silence, she sighed and let her eyes close.

   At that, he leaned down and tasted her moist skin, humming with pleasure as she lay still, not knowing what to say or do but feel treacherously frustrated.  Her insides were quivering and her breath shivered while she was still quite warm.  The general's temperature still helped it, and his tenderness and quietude confused her--which was to say she did not trust it.  He obviously was thinking to win her over with kindness....

    _Why should he need to?_ she countered to herself.  _This is his ship, and this is a secure room, probably mid-deck center.  Even if his interest is to have me here willingly, he has no need to do more than keep me well..._

   She drew a deep breath as his fingers brushed her swollen flesh.  It stung, and she suddenly realized that there had been a lot of friction there, though she had not felt it at the time.  He paused upon her and she stiffened with a gasp.  The soft touch felt wrongly good, relieving.  Then Tokarel at last backed up, touched her shoulder then moved to her side to scoop her into his arms.  Unused to _that_ position more than any other, Natasha automatically grabbed his arms to steady herself in case she was dropped.

   But the general's arms were perfectly steady.  "You have earned your rest, Consort," he told her and carried her across to the bunk.  Lowering them to his knee, he drew back the thick covers with a hand then eased her inside of them.  "Servant will wake you.  Do not suspect any danger; you are safe here.  I have ensured it and will continue to."

   Lying on her side, facing away from him, Natasha said nothing.  She still felt her stinging, throbbing flesh.  It tempted her to touch it, assuage the pressure still within her, but she resisted.  When she closed her eyes, she could see his hands upon her still, and feel his motions and soft fingers.  She shuddered and remained unmoved.  Soon, she could hear Tokarel across the room, dressing himself, and then pushing the chairs against the table.  Finished, he paused. 

   He was looking at her.  Her long-honed instincts assured her of its truth.

   The chill of the room returned.

        _"I would do anything to be warm again."_

        _"Do not be afraid, Polina.  It will not always be cold.  Come closer."_

   Footsteps sounded, pulling her back into the present.  So easily did she slip away lately!

   He was coming back to her, and she felt his warmth once more before his hand stroked her hair.

   She had been slipping...

        _"Focus, girl! You look away, you die! Do you want them to win so easily?"_

   "You are quiet, Tasia.  You are not uncomfortable?"

   She blinked.  He was speaking to her.  "I'm not uncomfortable.  Only very tired."

   "Of course," he replied pleasantly.  "I shall require you no more this evening.  You have served your duty--more, I admit, than I had expected.  You are most honorable, most generous and courageous.  Take your deserved respite, Tasia.  Servant will awaken and tend you well in the morning."

   He touched her hair again, so softly, she almost did not feel him now, and then he stood.

   That the general had made their first encounter more than merely bearable still worked hard on her.  Though the idea of ever _liking_ what she had to do was a necessity she did not question, she knew that he had been absolutely right:  She should at least accept that it was physically pleasurable and that she should not feel ashamed of that duty.  Yes, she had been successful in freeing herself from a certain fate on her homeworld, learning not one, but two trades, earning a solid reputation and even rising in the ranks as Starfleet officer.  That had to count for something, if only for the others, who would be working far harder than she would in wait of their freedom.

   For herself, only death awaited her, that living death, which had not started with Guinan's words, but perhaps was only just realized...

    _Let it go.  Stick to the moment.  Keep it tight.  Now is all you need to manage..._

   The mantra had long kept her moving forward, kept her alive, kept her successful, now gave her the urge to cry.

    _Cry.  For what?_

   She had not shed a tear since three days before she turned six.  The Dolinas had stopped any such useless energy--and for good reason.  What was there to pity in a choice that she had made and had served with little more than personal embarrassment? --A right choice, with nothing, absolutely nothing, to lose? Everything but her life. 

   Everything but a life that was no longer hers...  Dead.  All of them dead, and now her, as well.

        _"Lieutenant, I regret to inform you..."_

        _"Captain? --No.  No thank you.  I prefer to stand"_

        _"You will prefer to sit, Lieutenant."_

   Had she not come through the rift with the others, she simply would have disappeared.  Whatever she became in that "right" reality would be dead someday, and so necessarily _her_ future could mean nothing...and could go nowhere.

        _"I will avenge them all--even the ones I would have killed, myself."_

        _"And then, Natasha? What will you do?"_

        _"I think only of now.  And now there will be payment for their crimes."_

   Her breath left her, and her head spun until she opened her eyes once again.  Squeezing her muscles a little, the stinging faded into a slight tingling.  It did nothing to stop the pressure.  Her stare focused on her hand, lying on the silky blanket.

        _"I see a rumble! Loading photon torpedoes!"_

        _"Lieuten---"_

        _"Permission to fire, Captain! ....Permission to fire, Captain! ...Captain?"_

   She had fallen.  But she had stood again.  Now, it did not matter what happened to her, except that her existence there _did_ have some purpose at present, and how bad or good it would be may well be entirely up to her.

        _"You will need to find a focus outside of your mission, Lieutenant, else there will be  
        nothing for which you can hope."_

        _"Nothing but death."_

   Her fingers rubbed together. She watched them.

        _"I have never remained this still before. I am progressing and I like this, but...I feel  
        weak and useless."_

        _"Stillness can be your greatest ally, Natasha. Let yourself be still and do this one_  
        thing only. You will think, and you will rest, and then you will heal. Then, you may  
        care for too much again, Natasha, when you are healed. Now, here, take it like this..."

   It was gone, she realized, her lips parting and a sigh escaping her to know it. She had let Ivador take her clothing, and it had been in her pocket. It would be recycled with the rest. But then she blinked, slowly, breathing again and setting the ache aside. It was just a thing, an instrument, something utilized as needed and ultimately no greater than a memory...like she must be, like she always had been.

   Deeply, she breathed, and the circles grew slower, and the began to think...

   Tokarel might be her "master"--she could not say what Romulans called it--but he had a point:  Her position as his consort was going to be as miserable as she would make it.  She was miserable already, though:  miserable, lost, out of place and out of time, waiting for death.  She probably would have taken care of that last part by then had she not found herself responsible for those last nine people.

   A tool, an instrument... As always, her survival was important, even when the quality of her life was not. She did not regret this. It was her worth as a person.

        _"Someday, Lieutenant, you will have to release what you have guarded and risk  
        finding some peace."_

        _"Peace? Do you actually believe there is such a thing?"_

   After everything she had done, everything she had worked for...

        _"Nichoho ne shkoduj! Roby te, shcho neobkhidne ta dali vpered!"_

   She breathed, a deep, silent breath in the cool, sedated room.

        _"Tilo tse til'ky zasib!"_

   His voice rang through her ears as the mantras yet again filled her, like a prayer.  She could feel the weapon in her little hands, and Mr. Dolina's hands over hers as the voice became her own again.

    _Vono nichoho ne znaje...  A dusha vichna..._

   Strategically, she played out every scenario and probable outcome, and each were unworkable or unsatisfactory save the one she had already partially played out:  Following through with the terms of their agreement as long as he would do the same.  It was the course of least possible damage; it would, if the offer was genuine, keep the Enterprise C survivors safe until the Romulan government needed a barter.  How such a trade would affect her contract, however, was yet to be seen.  Tokarel had not taken their conversation that far.  She could only hope that his part of it would actually happen someday.

   She doubted she would have a say in the matter if it did not.

   Had she done the right thing? Had she sold them all to damnation?

        _"Zoseredzhujsia!"_ he had said over and over.  _"Ty mozhesh til'ky dijaty u  
        teperishnjomu momenti! Ty volodijesh til'ky teperishnym chasom!"_

   For almost twenty-three years, those prayers had kept her alive.

   Now she wished they had not. 

   Now, she wished she had argued.  She would be with them now if she had disobeyed, had followed her desire.

   Now, what she had done to obey them all was as useless as wishing for a changed past.  Only the present was what she had owned, and even that, now, was lost to her.

        _"...an empty death, a death without purpose."_

   Natasha rolled onto her side in the soft, light sheets and tried to make herself relax.  Her legs and everything between them still twanged with sensation.  The general, his warmth and gentleness returned, swam over and through her....

        _"Breathe...and take what I give to you.  You are beautiful and intelligent, and  
        there is no shame in your place, Tasia.  There is no shame in your place."_

   As his words echoed within her, his rhythm returned to her, too, his caresses and his quiet baritone, consoling her, encouraging her to accept him, to take the pleasure he would give.  And she had felt his pleasure, drank the release, arched into his movements over and within her, touching, warming, making her feel...reminding her that she could...and should...and was open to continuing the same. 

   And she could blame the wine or some hidden thing for making her that way.  What should it matter to a woman twice robbed of life and simply waiting for that finality, as long as her story remained as she designed and the others remained safe? Why choose more pain in the glow of false pride and a half-life of lies?

   Perhaps it was merely habit.

        _"There is no shame in your place."_

   Now he too was not there, returned to his duties upon the completion of hers, leaving her cold and alone--a familiar place, one without regret or pity or acceptance of pain, as was taught her.  Like the place she had taken that day, she had accepted the place of her youth, grateful for life and for the tools she needed to remain that way, but only under the condition that the dead have a place there, too.  The deal had been made on that point, and so the dead settled well, and ever would, one after another, grounding her, protecting her, giving her all of the comfort that living companionship had failed to do consistently.  And she had survived, carrying them faithfully and living by the rule she came to know as well as breathing.

   Years later, alone in the resurrection of silence and solitude, the voices of those dead reclaimed their rightful place within the woman she had become, and no longer was, and could at last stand before a chosen death when her one last duty had been served.  Someday, it would be served.

        _"Koly ty pryjdesh, Mama?"_

   Her voice was so true then, perfect and real, unlike the lie that had followed and had been so readily accepted by those too self-assured to think better of her.  How even those wholly unconnected to her had not dared suspect someone so seemingly like them! How they would never have understood her, even when they tried!

        _"Jak til'ky zmozhem,"_ she told her, her warm, green eyes gazing down at her, loving but sad, frightened but determined.  How Natasha remembered her face that day, in those moments that had impressed the rest of her life.  _"Dyvys' za Iryshoju i uvazhaj na sebe a my spravymosia iz tymy bandiuhamy.  Bud' oberezhnoju i ne davaj shchob tebe pobachyly.  Idy poliamy !"_

   She shivered and pulled her blanket over her shoulder.  Yes, she had accepted, but she still did not like the cold...

        _"Larysa, ja vykhodzhu."_

   ...and she still knew when she was alone.  And so she allowed them to come, despite all they brought with them...

        _"Iliya, ty..."_

        _"Naprav divchat zaraz, Larysa!"_

   Not a minute after the door had shut, the ghosts and all the love, terror, home and desolation they brought reclaimed her full attention and escorted her to sleep at last.

        _"Vony vzhe majzhe pryjshly.  Idy, idy nu! Liubliu tebe, Nataliya.  Zavzhdy  
        budu z toboju. Idy!"_

   As they always had.  And always would.

 

* * *

   Next:  9. Growth  
© D'Alaire M., July, 2012  
swiftian@yahoo.com


	9. Growth

"...reports are slim...taking...Orvo won't survive the pressure...fire spreading.  Evacuation...happen...."

"Mama?"

"Nata!" 

A smile broke the open frown on Larisa Yaroviy's face as she spun around to swat at the comm box.  "Ilya!  Deactivate it!"

"All transports are gone...blockade.  No communication with...signals now...  Cadre spread int-- ...  outlying properties...exterminat-- settler houses-- ...fire...--leave...houses imme-- ...Cadre-- ...Hide where you can!  Mirneselo Village burns--"

"Ilya!"

Snapping up his attention, her husband glanced back and shut the unit's sound off with a brush of his hand.

"What are they talking about?" Natasha asked.  She had heard enough to make her eyes grow wide with shock.  She had never heard such frightening things before.

Larisa laughed quickly and approached to lead her daughter away.  "Silly Tato and his programs!  But the transceiver is broken, darling, remember? We must fix it when we come home."  She took Natasha's hand and turned her away from her father's desk and the window, over which he pulled the curtain.  "Come!  You must dress!  It is almost time to leave!"

"No breakfast?"

"I have made something for you to eat later, Nata.  We must hurry.  They are… They are waiting for us, and Tato and I are hardly ready.  We will be late!"

Natasha looked at her mother.  She was dressed, and she saw their trunks by the door, unmoved from yesterday.  "What else are we taking?"

" _Your_ bag, Nata, remember?"

"But my trunk--"

"We need other things.  We must use another bag--and do it quickly!  We are late!"

"Are Matviy and Roma meeting us in Orvo?"

Larisa stilled for a moment.  She glanced over at her husband, though he had not turned to look back at her.  His head bent slightly.  "They were told we would meet them," she finally said and moved them to the stairs.

"But did the comm say the transports are gone?"

"That is something else.  We are going to your uncle's house in Kovalivka as soon as we can."

"What about school? And I cannot miss the new project at Nolanik.  We are starting the multiply mobile!"

"We will send for your lessons--and your Nolanik projects.  But before we go, you must go to the Dolinas' and get cheese to take to Babusya and Didus.  You will take Irisha with you and we will meet you there with our cases."  Natasha slowed, and her mother sped ahead, pulling Natasha up a couple of steps before stopping and looking down to her.  "What, Nata?"

"I do not like to go to the Dolinas'."

"They are good people!  Mr. Dolina is very kind to you."

"They are loud and hard," Natasha persisted.

Larisa blew a breath, but pressing her shoulders down, she lowered herself to a step and gazed directly into her daughter's eyes.  "Nataliya Ilyivna, I need you to go.  Can you be brave and do as I ask without asking more questions? I need you to go to the Dolinas' with Irisha, get the cheese and wait for Tato and me to come for you.  Will you do this for me, please?"

Painful moments passed as the child bit her lip and swallowed.  But then she looked up into her mother's face and her eyes took in all they could see.  Her creamy skin was pale, and her eyes were wide and red.  Though she had dressed in her walking cloak and boots, her bountiful honey-colored hair was not pulled up into its usual twist, and was hardly even brushed.  Her body was pressed unusually forward, as if ready to jump up and pull them away.  This was not like her mother, who was always laughing and easy.

"Mama, are you frightened?"

"Why do you ask that, Nata?"

"The receiver said scary things about the city, and you hurry so much.  I think you are frightened."

Larisa sighed and nodded.  "I am anxious to go, Nata.  There are problems, but you do not need to worry."  Standing, she resumed their direction.  "You must dress and go to the Dolinas' farm.  You know how long they can take to find what we need.  I have a note for you to give them and some other things.  Take Irisha in the wagon to their house and let them start looking, yes? --Good!  Thank you, Nata!"

Released from her mother's side, Natasha hurried up to her room and opened her drawer.  Looking across the bureau, she saw herself in the mirror.  Her flaxen hair was still messy from sleeping, but her round face was full of color.  Smiling with her next thought, she opened her top drawer and pulled out a pair of red ribbons, but she did not ask for anything just yet.  Her mother was already in the closet, pulling out her bag and stuffing clothes inside of it.  "You never know if the weather in Kovalivka will change before we get there," she said and tossed a jumper and long-sleeved shirt behind her onto the bed.  "It is early spring."  A pair of dark leggings followed.

"These clothes are too hot," Natasha complained.

"It will grow cold outside later.  We will roll the sleeves until then and tie your coat about your neck."

"I want to wear my red boots!" Natasha announced as she hopped onto her unmade bed to pull off her nightgown and put on her leggings.

"No, Nata, you will wear your winter boots.  They are better for walking and Kovalivka is cold now."

"Mama, please!  Uncle Nazar gave them to me and I want to wear them!"

"We have discussed this and I have said no."

" _Please_ , Mama!  I ask for nothing else." 

Larissa coughed a cry, clenched her fists, but finally her back bent and she tossed the pair out of the closet and toward her child.  "Please dress."  Satisfied, the child did so quickly as her mother continued to pack a small but tight bag, finishing it off with underclothes from her drawer, shirts and leggings and her comb.  

“Will we go first to Aunt Tatyana and Uncle Antonin’s flat?” Natasha asked.

“We had planned to,” Larisa answered quietly.

“I want to see Matviy and Roma.  Matviy promised to teach me how to play his fractals game.”

That time, Larisa said nothing.  Coming to Natasha's bed, she quickly re-braided her hair and tied off the ends with the ribbons Natasha had brought from her dresser.  "I will neaten it later," she whispered and moved behind her to tie the back of her jumper.  Drawing a quick breath, she stopped for a moment but then hugged her child from behind, kissing her cheek.  Remaining for a long moment, she finally started herself to her feet once more.  "Come!  We are ready!"

They left the room with the luggage, but Natasha doubled back before they came to the stairs.  "I must get Tosha!" she cried.  "She will want to come!  --And I want my books from Yevak School." 

"Yes, Nata, of course!  But that is all!  We must hurry and we already carry too much!”

"The transporter can take it, Mama, like it did last time."

"This is not last time, Nata."

The girl said nothing more.  Hopping across to the desk her Uncle Luka had crafted for her that autumn, she grabbed her Yevak School bag and pulled the strap over her shoulder, leaving the afternoon school things behind.  Stuffing her reading tablet and a couple of styluses into the front pocket, she then leaned over her rumpled bed to get her silken hair doll.  Natasha proudly cradled it in her arm as she came down the stairs and into the kitchen, where her father was finishing feeding her little sister.  

"Ready!" she announced and skipped through to grab a peach from the bowl.  Larisa dumped a box of food packets into a bag with a few drinking cups.  Natasha's eyes widened at the move.  One packet, she had been told, would make several litres of supplement.  "Irisha will not need _that_ many!"

"Preparation is good," Larisa replied.

Natasha watched her work and felt her gut tighten.  All of her excitement of before dissipated as she realized many things all at once.  Her mother's hands were shaking, and her eyes blinked often.  They were redder, too, and her full mouth was tight and straight.  It was all very bad, the girl was certain now.  They were not telling her things.  Terrible things were happening.

She looked at the transceiver.  It had not been a programme.  Natasha knew she understood what she had heard.  Orvo and Mirneselo were in danger.

"Mama, please tell me what is happening," she said.

Larisa paused but did not look back.

Ilya moved swiftly in between them, snapping Natasha's attention away.  Picking her up into his strong, slender arms, Ilya kissed his daughter's cheeks, making her giggle despite her focus just seconds before.  His beard, flaxen and neat against his fair face, always tickled--and sometimes he made it more tickling on purpose.  "Nataliya Ilyivna!  Good morning!" he said.  "You look very festive with your pretty boots!"

"Good morning, Tato!"

"Mama said you will go to the Dolinas' for us?" he asked.  "Are you ready?"

"Yes, Tato.  But I do not want to go.  They are loud and angry.”

"You like going to get cream from them, and help collect eggs, yes?"

"I do."

"They have never really been angry with you, have they?"

"No.  But why must I go there? Is it about Orvo and Mirneselo Vill--"

He swung her around and set her back onto her feet.  "Help get the wagon ready!  There is a note for them there."  He pointed.  "Give it to them when you arrive and they will know what to do.  Irisha is fed, and we must all be ready to leave soon."

They came onto the back patio, where their yard cart waited for them.  Natasha furrowed her brow.  It was stuffed with bags of clothing and a few spacesafe boxes.  Her own bag that her mother had packed and Irisha's supplement bag went on top of the rest.  Her father strapped it all together, then lay Irisha in her seat in the front, hooking her in and tweaking her nose.  The toddler snorted and coughed then grabbed her play cube when it was handed to her.  

Ilya then gently took Natasha's doll and set it beside Irisha, settling her inside the strap.  "Tosha will be comfortable there," he assured her then activated the antigrav.  "That will make it easier for you to take, Nataliya.  It should roll down the hill, not roll over you!"

Natasha was still looking at everything on the cart, but this time, she did not ask, knowing they would not tell her.  One thing was certain: They had prepared for more than a trip to Kovalivka, and for longer than she had known.

"Ilya!  Come here!"

Her father looked back.  Across the room, Larisa was pressed to the front window.  Her shoulders were heaving with her breaths now.  "Stay here, Nataliya,” he told his daughter then moved to see what she saw.

Larisa placed her hand on his arm when he came to her.  "Up," she whispered.

Watching from the other side of the great room, Natasha's curiosity belied her father's order and she hurried across to look, too.  Before her parents could shoo her back, she saw the horizon where the building tops and antennas of Orvo usually could be seen in the distance.  Instead, a plume of black rose steadily there.

"What is that smoke?" Natasha asked.  "Is the city on fire?"

"Nata, no!  Move away from the window!" Larisa cried.

"But Mama--"

"Obey your mother, Nataliya," Ilya told her firmly.

But Natasha was transfixed, now assured that everything was terribly wrong, and her parents had already known.  The city was on fire, which meant the people there were in danger--and not just any people.  Before she could ask them about it, she saw brown-clad soldiers on the road.  Her eyes flew open wide.  "Mama, are they coming to take our souls?" she cried.

Larisa swung a stare at her child.  "What, Nata?"

"Matviy told me the clan soldiers steal souls!"

Larisa coughed a little then drew a shaky breath, but then she shook her head.  "They will not steal our souls, Nata.  They cannot steal what we will never give them."

"Even when they say bad things?"

"Their bad words disappear in the air.  Our good words and good deeds are immortal."

"Because we must be the good words," Natasha recited, "and we must show others what good is in our deeds."

"Yes, Nata.  Very good."  Turning a long look back to Ilya, Larisa went to her daughter and took her hands.  "Tato and I will take care of those men and their bad words with our good.  But I want you to take Irisha to the Dolinas' now so we can leave more quickly for the transport."

Natasha's grip tightened on her mother's.  "I do not want to leave you, Mama."

Larisa swallowed and nodded.  "I know, Nata.  I understand.  But you must go now and wait for Tato and me.  You must take Irisha to the Dolinas' now."

"Larisa, you take them," Ilya said.  His gentle voice was low with warning, and the room seemed to grow bright.  Natasha looked between her parents.  Her father's face was firm and frowning; her mother's cheeks were red.  Her hands were shaking.  In the back of the room, by the door, Irisha was shaking her cube and talking at it.  Irisha knew nothing.  She was just a baby.  Her parents knew everything, leaving Natasha frighteningly in between those places.

"Larisa, you must go with them," Ilya told her.  "I will speak with the soldiers."

"But they will see me," Larisa responded softly.  Breathing hard, she shook her head but then nodded.  "I should go, I want to go, but they will see me, Ilya."  With that, she looked at Natasha once more.  "Go straight through the garden, Nata, and through the long grass down the hill to the Dolinas'."

"But my boots--"

"Do not worry about your boots.  Go across the stream and to the Dolinas' house the shortest way."

"Yes, Mama is right," Ilya encouraged darkly.  "Go that way, Nataliya--and quickly.  Now."

Larisa took Natasha's hand again and led her to the back door.  "Go to the Dolinas', Nata!" she repeated.  "Irisha is in the wagon.  You must go."

Natasha did not let her mother go.  "When will you and Tato come, Mama?"

Larisa got to a knee to face her child, and she took both of her hands and held her widened gaze.  "As soon as we can.  Take care of Irisha and yourself and we will deal with the bad men.  Be careful, my love--and do not be seen!  Go through the fields!"

"Larisa, I am going out."  Ilya had already drawn on his coat.  His fingers moved smoothly over the brass buttons as he secured them one by one.

"Ilya, you--"

"Send the girls _now_ , Larisa."

Larisa kissed her daughter and pressed a brave smile onto her mouth.  "They are almost here, now.  Go, go, now!  I love you, Nataliya.  I will be with you always.  Do not be afraid.  Go!"

Natasha hurried to the wagon and saw her doll on the floor.  She picked it up and put it next to Irisha again before pulling the wagon out the back door.  Looking back, she saw her mother follow her father out the front door, pulling her long hair over the back of her heavy cloak.  It shone dark gold in the sun.

Staring at the door as it closed, Natasha pushed the wagon into the long grass.  For a moment, she could not help but breathe the smells that met her there.  Winter would be there in a week, they had said, but the temperate region was merely crisp that morning, and the sun was already pulling a rich, woody smell from the earth and grass.  Even then, trembling and uncertain, she felt that scent, felt it make her still to know it....

An explosion tore her from the moment and made her swing around.  Was it the city?

Jumping away from the wagon, she ran back into her house.  But it was quiet.  Nothing was wrong, there.  Everything looked at it always did, save that it was empty and terribly quiet.  The kitchen had no food readying, and the great room wasn't in its usual clamor.  Something had been happening all week to make things change, though no one spoke of it.  Matviyko and Roman had been in Orvo for two days with Aunt Tatyana and Uncle Antonin.  They were there to help them, but Natasha had not been given any details.  There had been no school, and everyone was talking about leaving Turkana for Earth or other places--if they had not already.  Many, like her family, had to wait for the transports, for they were all full, she had heard her mother say.  Many of the children she knew had already gone.

And yet, all of her mother's red and yellow pillows were in their place on the sofa, undisturbed.  There was no music playing, but the unit blinked as ever, waiting for a selection.

She shivered a little in her heavy clothes.  Then, hearing voices outside, she snuck back up to the windows to see where her parents were.  Kneeling on the window bench, she slipped a finger between the curtains to look.

Her parents stood next to each other on the front walk, just before the soldiers--two men dressed in brown with long weapons balanced on each's arm.  They were definitely from the city, and their faces were angry and dirty as they spoke shortly and gestured at the house.  One man had narrow, light eyes and nearly white hair and brows on skin that looked too dark and young for white hair.  He kept on tapping on the weapon, watching her mother and father with a growing scowl.  When he glanced at the house, Natasha snuck back a little, but did not break her view.

At last, Ilya Yaroviy held his hands out, palms up, and spoke again to the two soldiers, one of whom checked a small PADD while the other adjusted his weapon.  Larisa clutched her husband's arm.  Her back was very straight.  But then the soldier put his PADD away and the white-haired one pulled a switch on the weapon.

Suddenly a flash of red filled the air in front of the armed soldier and Ilya fell, first to his knees and then forward.  When Larisa realized her hand was freed, another flash of red felled her as well, and she slumped to the ground beside her husband, her face buried in his collar.  

Her hair floated down a moment later.  

Her hand had landed on Ilya's arm, returned to the place snatched from it.

Neither moved.

Natasha's breath was gone, and her fingers pressed to the glass, hardly realizing, and yet knowing, and wanting, and knowing… 

Watching.

The soldiers nudged the bodies with the tips of their boots, then they looked at the house and checked their PADD again.  With one step in her direction, Natasha had sprung back through the great room and out the back door.  She was halfway across the patio before she scrambled back to close the door...

_"We cannot have so many flies in the house or the cakes will all be carried away!"_

Gasping, she ran back to the field and grabbed the wagon handle.  Crying, she hurtled them down the hill, faster than she had ever gone.  Surrounded by the grass, she barely knew where she was headed, except to the stream, where across and down through the glade the Dolinas' farm began.

_"Go, go, now!  I love you, Nataliya.  I will be with you always.  Do not be afraid.  Go!"_

"Mama!" Natasha sobbed, choking as she ran, not slowing, even as Irisha began to protest behind her--and then more loudly.  Natasha ran faster.  Autumn's dry grass crunched under her red boots, which slipped a little for lack of tread.  Her breaths came in peals now, and her knuckles were white on the wagon handle.

A cracking explosion sounded behind her and she looked back.  The wagon smacked into her and she fell.  Whipped around as the wagon kept going, Natasha cried and struggled to stop it on the sharp hill.  Digging her boots into the grass only seem to make it slipperier.  She hung on, seeing the toddler growing red with a yet unvoiced scream.  Shaking her head in terror to be heard, Natasha reached up with her other hand and smacked off the antigrav.  The wagon slumped onto its wheels and slowed enough for her to force it to the side.

Her back heaving, her legs bruised with the fall, Natasha looked up the hill to where she had started to run.

There was nothing but a spire of fire and smoke rising from where her house had been.

"Mama," Natasha whispered, agape at the sight.  "Tato."

"Ooya!" Irisha cried out behind her.  "Want ooya!"

"No, no!  Shush!"  Natasha dug around in the grass and found her sister's cube.  Pressing it into Irisha's hands, she grabbed the handle again, lurching it forward.  Flinging around, she jerked a finger against the button--and then again and again until the antigrav reactivated.  She took off again as another explosion rocked the ground and a white plume of smoke filled the air.

Her legs moved faster, her breath crushed her chest and her hand and legs screamed with pain, but she could see the grove coming.  Far away, she could see the Dolinas' squat little farmhouse.  She could see the cows; she soon would be at the dairy.

As she started toward it, ships rose in the air above the East Province, filling the world with their horrible noise.  Screeching sounds, tearing...and fire, and more explosions followed.  To the south, a great red monstrosity speared the sky.  Mirneselo was there.  More fire to the north.  The Goncharuks lived there, and the Radiks...

All was in flames.

Crying out anew, she sped even more.

Death was behind her, and fire was rising to greet it.

It would catch her.

Ships flew all around, now, racing...throwing fire into the hills, and more into the valley, and more black smoke rose from what used to live there.  Her friends, the schools, the houses...

Death and fire was everywhere around her, surrounding her, chasing her...

Nothing but death...

* * *

"Mr. Doli--"

"Get in here, girl!"

Tears sprang from Natasha's eyes as Mr. Dolina's big, hairy hand nearly smothered her over the mouth and nose as he dragged her into the house and threw her inside of a stark, white kitchen.

"Liza, get the wagon!"

"They sent the baby, too!" came the woman's gruff reply.

Mr. Dolina glowered down at Natasha.  "Where are your parents, Natasha? Where is your mother?"  He hurled himself at her, making her scamper back into the corner.  "Tell me where is Larisa Tyodorivna!"

"The soldiers came!" Natasha sobbed in reply.  "They came to our house!"

"They came here, too.  They thought we were gone.  What about yours?"

"Mama and Tato went outside to talk and..."  Natasha's breaths came in sobs.  "One had a weapon!  He had white hair and black eyes and he was cruel!  And he...  He...  He pointed his weapon and it made a fire and they fell!"

Mr. Dolina shuddered, glowering as she spoke and waving a hand as she sobbed again.  "Enough!  They are not the only dead and not the last.  We mourn them all later.  Come!"

The burly man almost lifted Natasha off her feet by the head as he dragged her from the kitchen and into a dark room.  Natasha had been to the farm many times, but she had never been inside their house.  It smelled odd, pungent and thick, and the furniture was hard and old.  Even with so many windows, the room had no light in it.  A small comm unit sat by the left wall.  He dropped her down in front of it.  "Stay, girl!  This is only the beginning!"

 _"*…West District Settlers eradicated, the East District is on fire; Coalition forces moving into the North District,*"_ a tinny voice crackled on the comm.  Like at home, there was no video and he was speaking Unified, but it sounded like a different voice than at home.  _"*Orvo is collapsing in the fires: Targo, Darston and Kimli are destroyed...remaining pockets move into the tunnel system beneath the city.  Orders stand to neutralize Settlers, so be vigilant, and speak Standard if you are caught outside what is left of Orvo!*"_

Natasha shuddered as she heard the words.  Her family were Settlers, and Matviyko and Roman were in Targo with Aunt Tatyana and Uncle Anton.  Her parents were gone.  Were they all gone? Had her parents known? Had they heard about Targo? Did they know they all were gone?

They were _all_ gone....

Fresh tears filled her eyes even as she wiped her nose with her hot sweater arm.  What would she do without them? How could she do anything without her family? Where would she go?

She looked around to the door, where Mrs. Dolina had collected Irisha and was reading the letter her parents had tucked into the wagon.  Scrambling up, she went to the woman.  "Mrs. Dolina, I--"

"Quiet!" she snapped, and squinted to continue reading.  Her broad, tan face scowled at whatever she learned, and she did not respond to Irisha patting her bushy grey hair.  

_"*Take cover in outside of homes and offi--… Fires spreading through Onikri--… *"_

Sighing with a puff, Mrs. Dolina bounced Irisha a couple times in her thick arm and flicked a smile at her.  Glancing down at Natasha, then, she frowned and ordered, "Put the foodstuff on the sink there and take the rest of what you brought down those stairs to the basement.  Go now, girl!"

"What will we--"

"Did I tell you to ask questions? No!  I told you to put the food on the sink and take this rest of these things to the basement!"  Stomping three steps down, she pointed to a thickly carpeted corner opposite the thin windows on the other side.  "That is where you will sleep.  We have nowhere else, but the basement is warm and there are things to sleep on.  Take blankets from the shelf under the steps and make a bed.  Do not take all the blankets, only what you need.  And be quiet!  I will take care of your sister, as your mother asked me to.  She will stay with me.  Go!"

Natasha's heart would not stop lurching, but she kept her weeping as quiet as she could and did as she was told.  Her parents told her she must respect her elders, and they had sent her to the Dolinas' house.  She must obey them.

If only Matviy were there.  He would know what to do.  If only...

_"I love you, Nataliya.  I will be with you always.  Do not be afraid...."_

Natasha choked a sob.  She could not help it.  She was terrified, and wanted her mother more than she had ever wanted anything.  

"Did you hear me?" Mrs. Dolina barked.  "Now!"

Natasha jerked at the command.  Unstrapping the wagon her father had prepared so well, she shakily took her Yevak bag off the top of the pile.  She had wanted that so much, and now she didn't want to ever see it again if there was but a chance of seeing her family, instead.  Putting it on the floor, she got Irisha's supplement and moved to put it on the sink counter.

_"*We cannot transmit...  Power is cut throughout...  Cadre groups spreading through...  Take cover...*"_

The comm in the other room was scratchy, but the yelling and bustle behind the hurried voice could not be mistaken.  The soldiers were coming for them, too.  They were all doing to die.  The soldiers would come and put them all on fire until they were dead.

She put the last boxes of foodstuff on the counter then hurried back to the wagon to pull everything off to take down the stairs.  

_"*There is no contact with Federation.  Subspace communications have been cut off...  All comm...cut....  Do not try to conn… tracking all communications and following--*"_

Digging through the pile, Natasha's panic doubled.

Tosha was gone.

She looked around the wagon.  "Tosha? Tosha!"  She ran to the door.

Suddenly, Mrs. Dolina's hand came down and grabbed her by the shoulder, yanking her back.  "Stay inside, girl!"

"But Tosha!"

"Who is that?"

"My baby!"

Mrs. Dolina barked a laugh.  "People dead everywhere, Orvo and all your people's villages are burning down and you worry about a _doll_!? Take your things into the basement and make a bed, you stupid girl!"

"Why are they doing this?" Natasha finally asked, hardly able to see for the water pooling in her eyes.  "Why do they kill us all?"

"Because they hate freedom, and they hate Settlers more," Mrs. Dolina snapped.  "Dry your tears!  You waste time!  --Shut up and _listen_ , girl!  --And do not forget!  Remember everything that happens today--the death of all your people.  Only anger will survive this!"

Natasha shivered deeply inside.  Mrs. Dolina was red faced, now, clutching her mother's note in one hand and Irisha in the other arm, and now seemed poised to jump at her.  Backing carefully up, biting her quivering lip, Natasha turned and found her bags.

 _"*Hide if you can!*"_ The man on the comm now was yelling.  _"*The cadres...no questions...no transports...  Hurry!  Take what...  Anna!  Get down!*"_

Natasha's hand wrapped around the handles of her mother's spacesafe boxes when a burst of hissing static filled the room.  Then the comm died.

A few seconds later, Mr. Dolina stomped into the room and found another person still broadcasting, though the words were very much the same.

They continued to find broadcasts until the last one cried for mercy then at last went silent.

* * *

It was a neat space with well-provisioned shelves, smooth cement walls and thinly cushioned floors, all grey.  There was a little window on the top of the far wall and thick stairs coming down in the middle.  To the left and behind the stairs, between the corner walls and a jutted out shelf, she had made a bed for herself, as instructed.

Her parents had packed their own clothes, too.  There were spacesafe boxes, a few small pieces from around the house and her father's pen set.  These things Natasha put on a high shelf in a box to keep them safe and put her clothes and school materials on the second shelf, where she could reach.  For her own bed, she had pulled two thick, woolen blankets from the shelf across and set the spacesafe boxes behind where her head would lay.  Covering the blankets with her mother's cream knit shawl, the one article of her parents' clothing that she dared to pull out, she finally crawled into the corner space.  

Lying on the shawl, her eyes wetted anew.

It smelled just like her mother, her skin and powdery perfume, she knew with but a breath.  Natasha cried into it until she fell asleep.  

Hours later, how long exactly, she could not tell, she stirred at sounds outside--ships zooming low in the sky.  Why should they be in the East Province? She turned...and did not feel Tosha by her.  Did she fall off the bed again? She reached out, but felt no end to her bed.

Starting herself awake, she instantly realized where she was.  Then she remembered crying, Mrs. Dolina's cross, red face...running...her parents falling...and why the ships were overhead.  "No!  No!"  she gasped and began to cry again.  

Then a light came on.  Mr. Dolina's arm came down from the ceiling bar, which lit his heavy, tan face in frightening relief.  Natasha shrank back into her corner and shook her head.

"No, no, girl," he said quietly.  Coming into her corner, he squatted to a knee.  "No sense to fear me.  Bigger devils loom above us all."  He motioned to the air above.  "Far greater hells live on Turkana now."

"I want Mama and Tato," Natasha whispered.  Her heart still pounded with fear of the large man with the hard, red face.  But he did not reinforce it.  He sank more into a crouch and almost smiled, almost looked sad.

"You cannot have them anymore," he told her.  "They and many other things you will not get back.  I wish it were different, but now is all we own.  The cadres have won Turkana and now squabble over scraps and graveyards.  Our lives will be different, now."

Natasha could process only a little of that, though his apparent gentleness managed to bring her out of the corner a little.  "I still want them."

"They have been spared," he told her, "and crying will bring none from heaven."

She gasped, her tears starting anew at the memory of her fallen parents--and no grave for them.  Nothing but the hard fire and cold.  And then she remembered what they had said about Targo.  "Matviy and Roma, too!  Aunt Tatyana and Uncle--"

"Shush, girl!  No crying!  It does no good and it makes me crazy.  You think crying helps, eh?"  Lowering more, he now sat on the floor, just outside of the little place she had made for herself.  "You are a smart girl, like your father, and a good, solid girl, like your mother, so I will be plain with you.  The other clans are rid of their problem; all the people in the city went fast.  -- _Listen_ , girl!  There is no pain and nothing to bury.  The ones left alive are already under Orvo, in the tunnels, under the city, waiting for the fires to die."

Natasha started up at that idea.  "What if Aunt Tatyana and Uncle Antonin took them out of Targo to the tunnels? They could be alive!"

"Targo is gone, girl.  That neighborhood went first, and now the whole city is gone.  I would be surprised if any Settlers survived.  But know what is left!  Us!  We have provisions, clothes, blankets, food--plenty in the cellar and animals in the fields.  We will not be victims of those clans!  --No!  No crying, Natasha!  You must be strong--stronger than them all!  For the Settlers had long been the target; the clans have always hated our free thinking people here and would have all the people speaking against the dead--and they _have_ made us all dead, save us few.  Give them no more satisfaction.  Give the evil ones nothing!"

"Mama said they cannot steal what we do not give them.  They cannot steal our souls if we keep our souls and stay good."

"Right.  So listen to your mama and stay strong!"

Natasha slumped.  "Why does no one help us?"

"Because they have always stayed out of Turkanan business.  And now? The cadres are liars and thieves--and they are liars and thieves in control of the databanks, communications and the flight yards.  You ever see Level 16-West, where the landing yards come out of the mountain?"

"Yes.  We were there for the transport to Odeska this summer."

"The soldiers own that now--and all of the computers inside the Orvon Mountain.  It controls all of the colony information.  So the Federation cannot know anything but what the soldiers tell them, and I cannot see them doing anything that will not serve them.  The Federation already warned them of what would happen if we went to war--that they would withdraw us as citizens.  The clans are making that happen."

Natasha suddenly felt outraged, and she propelled to her knees before the gruff man.  "That is a lie!  We would never be those bad people!  They are devils!  Devils who kill good people!"

"You are angry about this? Good!  Be angry!  It will help you where crying is useless."

Natasha immediately retreated.  "Mama would not say that."

"Your mama is gone, too, Natasha.  Never forget how that happened.  You were always a smart girl, a good, sensible girl.  You are smarter than others.  You know that, going to that special school in Mirneselo, yes?"

"The Yevak school," Natasha supplied.  Her bag was at her knee.  She had been so anxious for everyone to come home so she could go back.  She had so loved being there with Mr. Obal and Miss Levisi...

"So you learn and remember!  Remember everything!  And never forget how Larisa Tyodorivna and Ilya Fedirivich Yaroviy fell!  Never forget how you have lost your family and your people!"

Placing his heavy hand on her head for a moment, he gave her a firm nod and snorted a kind of approval.  "You listen to me, do as I say, learn from me, girl, and you will live.  Your sister will be well.  Liza will take care of her like she did all her little sisters.  She is good at it, so you think only about making yourself strong.  You cry now, and then we work, make you strong enough for what is coming--and what is coming will be hard.  I have seen bad things on other worlds, bad things I do not repeat--not even to my wife.  But I have seen kids like you learn how to survive.  You can and you will if you want to.  I can make you ready--and we will be prepared when the devils come back--and they _will_ come.  We will be strong, and we will never give them our souls.  --And we give them our souls, Nataliya Ilyivna, if we do not do our best, our very best, to live."

Natasha could only stare at him.  She had never imagined him being so gentle or so kind, even as he spoke such hard words.

"Your parents were wise to make you come here," he finished.  "I will make you safe."

With that, he left, and the dim, cold silence overtook her again.  She lay awake for what seemed like hours, hugging her mother's precious things close against her, sobbing, longing, feeling her heart tear, until the pain was so much that she barely felt it anymore, and then she was only crying out of reflex.  And then that stopped, too, and she only shivered.

And it occurred to her that her mother had been correct to make her wear all of those hot, heavy clothes.  The floors were warm and the blankets were thick, but it _was_ cold where she had to go.

* * *

She did not try to sleep, but she eventually did until she was shaken by a string of frustrated curses that her parents would never have spoken.  Her eyes flew open and she immediately realized again that she was not in her bed, or in her home with all her things around her.  Tosha wasn't next to her, and her mother and father...

That memory now flew through her, fresh and clear, making her gasp with horror.

They were dead.

And she was alone.

And she was cold.

Before she could think to cry again, the curses rattled down the stairs again, then, "What the hell are we going to do with _these_ kids?!"  The curses were coming from Mrs. Dolina.  Thunderous steps echoed in the basement.

"Put them to work!  We need all the help we can scrape out of this hell," Mr. Dolina yelled back.  A door slammed, cracking open the short silence, and then the thudding steps started again.  The basement door opened.

"Get up here, girl!" Mrs. Dolina yelled.  The demand bounced off the walls.

Wiping her face, Natasha stuck her feet in the loafers her mother had packed.

When she came upstairs, she saw two boys from the secondary school standing in the kitchen, dirty and shaking, each holding sloppy bags.  One was a few years older than she was, chubby and fair.  The other was a little older, Roman's height with dark brown hair.  A girl a little older than him was there, too.  She was holding a suitcase that was burned on one corner and her clothes were little better for the wear.  Brown-skinned with tawny hair and green eyes, Natasha remembered her from Matviyko's class, and from a house party...a pretty, laughing teenager who had left her friends to help the younger children bring their drinks to their table.  She and Matviyko had been in a play together, too, a funny story, though she did not remember what it was about.

When she stepped into the room, they all turned and looked at her.

"Show them where they will sleep!" Mrs. Dolina ordered her.

Natasha jumped and hurried back down the stairs.  The other kids followed, dragging what they had brought with them.  "Blankets are there," Natasha said with a gesture toward the back corner of the space.  "You can make beds with them."

"How long have you been here?" one of the boys asked.

"I came here yesterday," Natasha answered, "when...the fires..."

"Where is your family Natasha?" the girl asked.  Though mature, her voice was shaky.  "Do you remember me? I am Anja, from--"

"They are dead," Natasha told her, and she wept a little to say the words.  She had not said the words before, and she regretted saying it then.  Wiping her face suddenly, she saw her sadness reflect in Anja's eyes.  "Mr. and Mrs. Finik are gone?"

Natasha had meant to say Anja's parents, but Anja understood.  Nodding, her face grew tight.  Then the older boy piped in.  "The clans came and killed everything and burned down our house.  I hid in my tree, and they laughed and tried to set it on fire, too."  

Though his words were angry, Natasha could see the tears in his eyes grow, too.

"They are devils," she told him.

"They are devils who cannot make a fire in wood!" he shot back.  "It went out as soon as they went away."

"What is the chatter about?!"  Mrs. Dolina poked her head down the stairs, her round face suffused.  "Put your things away and get up here.  You think sitting down there and crying is going to feed us all? You think that, then you can keep walking to what is left of Orvo.  Time to work!  Now!"

They all apparently knew the Dolinas well enough to obey.  Taking a blanket and claiming a place, they hurried upstairs.  Natasha, looking around at the area, seeing her corner in a foggy ray of light, went to her things and covered them with an extra blanket.

"You think I forgot you, girl? Get up here!"

"Yes, Mrs. Dolina," Natasha answered and went upstairs.  

A basket was thrust into her hands upon her arrival in the kitchen.  The other kids had already lumbered outside toward the garden.  Looking up, Natasha saw that Mrs. Dolina had Irisha in her arm again.  Her little sister was chewing happily on a biscuit.  Natasha opened her mouth to ask about her, but was stopped before she started.

"Go collect eggs," Mrs. Dolina told her.  "Go now--and do not frighten them!  They are rattled enough with all the explosions and patrols!"

Natasha took one more look at Irisha.  She at least looked well cared for, like Mr. Dolina had promised, and was ignoring her for the delicious treat.  Mrs. Dolina had tied her fuzzy hair into two tails on top of her head and dressed her in her brown jumper and shoes.  Natasha nodded and went outside.

There were clouds everywhere, and the early sun had no warmth.  Two days ago, it had been sunny and cool.  She had played on her swing in the morning, feeling that bright yellow sun on her face and gloved hands as they gripped the rope.  And her mother called to her from the kitchen window, telling her the joke Roma had sent over the comm… 

And she closed her eyes against the clouds and turned in place to remember the feeling of the motion and the sun, the sound of her mother in the kitchen and the bees in the garden, before...

Her eyes opened.

A plume of black and grey rose from the horizon.  Orvo.  It still burned.  More black rose in unending spires in every other direction, too.

Her heart shrank.

Everything was gone.  Everything was burned away.  Before her very eyes, everything she loved was dead and burned.

She drew a shaky breath, and her eyes stung...

"Damn!  Damn you!  What the hell is this?! The Turkanan rescue center?"

"Pani Dolina!" cried a young girl in broken Standard.  "Miy batky...!  They-- They _mertvi_!  They dead, so I run.  I go to water.  I sit, dark!  Help!  --Please!  Please!!"

"Lev!" Mrs. Dolina screamed in Standard when the girl began to sob and beg again.  "Get the hell in here!"

Natasha ran back to the kitchen, not daring to hope it was who she thought.  But a smile flickered over her face when she came inside and her suspicion was confirmed.  "Polya!"

The other girl looked up from the floor where she had been kneeling and clutching at Mrs. Dolina's boots.  Her curly blonde hair and freckled face were filthy with soot and her leggings and shoes were sopping wet.  Her coat lay on the floor.  But she jumped off the floor and ran to Natasha to embrace her.  Natasha hugged her back and looked up at Mrs. Dolina.  "This is Polina Goncharuk, who can stay with me," she offered.  "I will take care of her."

"Take her outside," Mrs. Dolina commanded.  "Clean her up and show her your work.  Take her to the basement later.  --Lev!"

"Yes, Mrs. Dolina," Natasha answered and took her best friend's hand and the woman stormed away, still cursing at her husband, who still had not come from the barn.  "Come!  We need to collect eggs."

Broken from her despair with a look of confusion, Polina nodded shakily and followed Natasha out.

Polina's ruined peacoat flew out of the back door behind them.

"I lost my my parents, too," Natasha told Polina sadly as they walked.  "But I know exactly where they are."

Polina stared at her, looking depleted in every way.  Her skin was white beneath the filth, and even her large blue eyes looked drained of color, just like the sky had been.  "The bad men came and took my parents...and they screamed."  Her voice was tiny.  "They did not know I was there.  Then fire came, and..."  Her tears started again, and Natasha pulled her behind a tree before Mr. Dolina came too close to see.  "I hid in the river under the bridge until they went away, and I remembered how to come to the farm.  I was so cold, Nata… "

"Shush, the Dolinas become angry at crying.  Cry into your sleeve."

But Polina would not be stopped, so Natasha hugged her close, needing the embrace, too, the warmth that the cloud-covered sun and the distant fire would not give her: Her best friend.

"We will stay together, Polina," Natasha assured her.  Always, they had told each other this.  They had played together since they could remember, and most recently, Natasha had helped Polina to start to read.  They gathered flowers together while their mothers talked and brought them to the grandmothers in Mirneselo, earning them kisses and bundles of little sweets.  

A thin, grey ship whooshed above them, screaming at the farm, spiting them all for being there.  Natasha stiffened but did not let go of her friend, who gripped her even tighter, now, even after the ship was gone.  "We are always better when we are together," Natasha added.

"Yes, always better," Polina whispered through her tears.

Mr. Dolina at last caught up and looked behind the tree.  "Dry your faces and come!  Now!"

* * *

Long days followed as the children worked to gather provisions and collect the day's produce beneath the heavy, smoke-laden sky and looming scout crafts attacking even the dead and the fire and filling the night with their hatred.  

Traditionalists save a few modern comforts, the Dolinas quickly educated the orphans who could barely keep their tears and anxiety to themselves, and never had worked with their hands--a point the Dolinas scoffed at often.  But within a few days, they were automatically going to their chores, however clumsily, and doing what they could to collect the food they had to eat, mainly eggs, milk, cabbage and onions.  

"Your ancestors lived on less for their lives and we thankful for that much!" Mr. Dolina barked when Olek, the younger boy, dared to complain that he did not like onions.  "The city still burning and your village, too, and you whine about your good fortune? Find better in the Orvan Plain if you think you can!"

Olek opened his mouth to respond, but Marko elbowed him to shut up before he could make a sound and everything worse.  Another jab, and the boy began to eat his soup.  

Natasha, sharing a chair with Polina, had not stopped her meal.  It was so frightening there, and the silence even more so.  It was nothing like her cheerful home, with her mother's warm voice and tender smile as she laded food lovingly from every dish and her father read poems, or sometimes letters from the family or friends in Kovalivka.

This place was cold and hard and not her home, and she loved nothing there.

Not there, until Polina took a short rest from her food and leaned her head on Natasha's shoulder.

At least there was one thing.

Mrs. Dolina barely held back her rage throughout those days; they all avoided her as much as they could and did precisely what she asked the moment she asked it in order to get away from her again.

Though the older ones complained often, none spoke of going elsewhere, which young Natasha understood without having to think about it.  Where else could they go? The soldiers had proved that the other clans didn't want them to live, and it seemed that no one else in the East District had survived to assist.  The Dolinas grudgingly told them that the farm would be their home for the foreseeable future.  To stay there, they had to obey and behave, else live out Mrs. Dolina's threat to turn them out to the burning city, where there was no telling what remained in its tunnel network except the handful of desperate survivors, whispering over scratchy comms to stay away from the city if at all possible.

In the morning, the boys went into the barn with Mr. Dolina.  Anja worked alone somewhere in the house with Mrs. Dolina on her heels.  Natasha and Polina worked together in the barn, shoveling manure and spreading hay, or in the garden picking weeds, until they were told they could stop.  

It was all they could do, for they could do nothing else, and it was better than feeling, better than remembering, better than thinking--and far better than imagining.

They were alive.  None of them expressed any gladness for this.  They simply remained that way, because they knew they should.

They ate small meals, all together, without but a few words.  Anja had to clear the table and clean the dishes.  Polina had to take the pots to the stream to rinse them.  Natasha scrubbed the table and floor.  The boys went out with Mr. Dolina to take care of the cows and other things.  Mrs. Dolina took Irisha to the bedroom to play, speaking standard with a cheer that struck Natasha as utterly false.  But she said nothing.  Irisha had someone to be a mother for her, at least.  Natasha still did not like the coarse old woman, but the woman was more than any of the rest of them had, and Natasha did not want to be near the baby for a reason she could not understand, but simply knew.

Bathing was done in groups.  Polina and Natasha went first, then the boys.  Anja was the only one to go alone, though sometimes, Mrs. Dolina had Irisha go in with her.  The shower could be on for only two minutes to conserve power, so they had to hurry and get everything cleaned before Mrs. Dolina came and slapped off the controls.  Natasha knew she was not doing very well, though she did try.  Many times at first, she forgot to put the bucket in to catch water so she could rinse her hair.  Mrs. Dolina told her to wipe it with the towel and rinse in the stream in the morning if she was bothered.  Natasha chose not to be bothered.  The stream was too cold, and eventually, she did start to remember.

The rules of the house were firm and not to be crossed.  There was no argument nor discussion.  None among them had any choice.  Infractions had immediate consequences, evidenced by Olek when he landed on the floor a second after talking back to Mrs. Dolina.  

"I have as much of that as you are willing to ask for!" she barked and stomped away as Olek sniffled, trying not to cry outright.  "Finish your work, boy!"

Instead, she strapped on the hot boots her mother had packed in the cart and pulled on a sweater to head out into the yard and start the list of things the Dolinas had asked her and Polina to do.  Polina always followed, wearing Natasha's spare clothing and her own boots, which looked terrible.  Natasha had always been much taller than other girls her age, and Polina was more like a tiny doll.  Her clothes hung off her pale, scrawny form like afterthoughts.

"When you grow, you will need new clothing," Anja had warned them one afternoon as they shook out their blankets.

"When we grow?" 

"You will grow, Natasha, as long as you still live and eat."

"I did not think about time...here, like we are."

"We will probably have to see who is alive in Orvo soon.  That is the only place I can see still having what we need."

Marko coughed bitterly.  "Just like the cadres want."

Natasha looked at the smoldering city and shuddered.  What would be left there? The soldiers circled in their crafts above the land, sometimes firing on it--or at each other--sending them all inside and into the basement until they had done enough.

Would they have to get new clothes from the soldiers? Dress like them and speak their hateful words?

Exhausted after another day of collecting eggs, raking and feeding the chicken yard, picking vegetables, cleaning the floors then finally filled with cabbage, onions, eggs and milk, Natasha and Polina washed their faces and hands then crept into the basement while the others listened to the crackling comm for news about the city.  Some Settlers had survived, they learned, but they had been sequestered, cornered into a small territory just under the still smoldering surface.  Other groups had been ordered into spaces of their own, too.  None were permitted to go outside, nor leave their territory.  Some had been killed and thrown outside when they resisted.

Anja, Marko and Olek stayed close to the comm as the reports trickled through, but Polina didn't want to hear any more about Orvo's horrors.  It echoed down well enough for Natasha to understand that none now lived outside of the tunnels of the city.  Whoever survived the fires or who had lived just around Orvo had been ordered to relocate.

Natasha had been in the tunnels several times and spent a good deal of time in the city all of her life.  Orvo City itself had been built on top of the great hill, its shining stone buildings reaching high into the sky, around beautiful parks and marble malls, and a vast ship landing yard stretching out to the west beyond it.

There were entire parks in the crystal caverns deep beneath the city, too, amusements and underground buildings, all lit in white and blue by sun tunnels, as her father had called them.  She loved how they shone, like thousands of gleaming gems bathed in moonlight.  Her father held her hand as she slid down a colorful slide, and she laughed and called it prettier than anything she knew.  He had loved to draw and write on one of the many crystal ledges on the levels just above the shipyards.  She remembered his fair face shining in the light, his eyes bright with all he would create for seeing such beauty, there.

Natasha never wanted to see them again.  The soldiers were there now with all of those poor people.  How sad everyone would be, trapped in a pretty place with ugly people, and all of that they loved had been taken or burned.

No, she never wanted to go near the city, and she swore that night to never even look that way if she could help it.

Instead, she and Polina nestled into Natasha's bed of blanket-covered clothes and pulled her mother's shawl over them both.  Holding each other close, the girls closed their eyes tight as Polina tearfully whispered a prayer.  Natasha echoed it.

She woke to the vision of her parents falling limply onto the cement.

Her eyes did not close again that night, and she did not let go of Polina.

* * *

The ground cruiser had to have come from the city.  It was black and dented, and the people inside it were in little better condition, from what they could see.

Not that any of them got a good look at first.  They had all scrambled for shelter upon seeing the cruiser sailing down the path that used to lead to Mirneselo village.  The boys threw themselves into the barn and Anja ducked into the kitchen.  Polina, frozen in horror, tried to hide somewhere but ended up standing by a tree, shaking until her knees looked as though they would give way.  Natasha came out from behind the feed bin and yanked her behind it.

"Stay with me!" she whispered and put her arms around her friend.  "If they take us, we go together."

Polina tuned her head into Natasha's shoulder.  "We are better together," she shakily affirmed.

Rather than hide, Mr. Dolina stood his ground in the middle of the yard.  "Liza!" he called out.  "Come out and meet these people with me!"

Natasha's brow furrowed.  His voice sounded strange, and she realized that he must be speaking Standard and the soldiers' translators were picking it up.  It made her uncomfortable to hear him like that.

The door of the kitchen opened and shut soon after he had spoken, and Irisha's giggle could be heard.  Natasha frowned.  Why would Mrs. Dolina bring a baby anywhere near those monsters? But then, nowhere was safe.  Mr. Dolina would be the first to tell her: _"Sometimes the best place to hide is in the open--and sometimes the worst.  Learning which is better is the most difficult part."_

Mr. Dolina spoke again, his voice still odd.  Natasha did not pick it up that time.

One of the soldiers replied to him, calm but hard, and Natasha could not help but peek around the corner.  That time, _she_ started shaking.  They were dressed just like the ones who had come to her house and killed her parents.  They were not the same men, but they were from the same place.

The men began to speak more, Mr. Dolina oddly calm, more relaxed and ordinary than she knew him to be.

"Children!  All of you come out!" Mr. Dolina ordered, now in Unified.

Natasha heard the kitchen door then, with another prompt, the barn door.  Finally, Natasha drew a breath and took Polina's hand.  "Come.  If they wanted you to be dead, you would be already.  They will not harm you now."

"But the soldiers--"

"They will find you no matter where you go.  Come!"

Against Polina's wishes, Natasha brought her out into the yard and got them very close to Mr. Dolina.

"These men are taking a census."

"What is that?" Olek asked.

"They are asking for all the ages and names of the people living outside of the city."

"There was a general order for all residents to go to the tunnels," the solider said with the same strange voice as Mr. Dolina had suffered.  He was wearing a translator pin.

"We got no order," Mr. Dolina said.  "The Coalition man who came through before said we could stay, since we had livestock that needed to be cared for."

"You remember his name?"

"I got no names.  But he was very tall and dark-skinned."

"Probably Townsend," the solider said to himself, nodding.

Another man stormed into the yard.  "Jurra!  Why aren't you done?" he said, very cross.  "This isn't a social."

"Just figuring out who let them stay," the other man, Jurra, said.

The man who came in grabbed a PADD from the other soldier and tapped on it so hard, Natasha thought he would put the stylus through the screen.  "Name!" he barked.

"Lev Dolina."

"Clan."

"Traditionalist."

"Age."

"Eighty-two."

"That your wife?"

"Elizabeth Dolina, also eighty-two."

"Sign and scan."

Natasha's brow drew up.  She did not think he was _that_ old--or that Mrs. Dolina was the same age.  Anja came next, whispering her responses but otherwise calm, even when she signed her name for them and leaned down for the retinal scan.  The boys were examined for nearly a minute before they were asked the same questions and told to sign.  They were nine and eleven.  Looking over each response, the men spoke quietly to each other, typed on their PADDs then nodded.  Their PADDs both beeped confirmations.  Finally, the angry man turned to Natasha.

"You?"

Natasha opened her mouth, but suddenly felt her voice die, and she suddenly realized that her knees were going weak, and her body had gone cold.

"I can tell you," Mr. Dolina said.  

"I'm not asking you, Dolina," the man snapped back then got on a knee to stare thinly at Natasha.  "Are you shy?"

Natasha shook her head.  No one had ever imagined her to be shy before, but her chest tightened with terror, reneging anything she might have wanted to say.  The man's weapon was like the ones that the others had used.

"How about you sign?" he taunted.  "Let's see how well you do it."

Jurra rolled his eyes and turned away.  "Come on, Dyson!  She's just a little kid!  You're as sick as Nikon."

"And you're not in charge," Dyson shot back and shoved the PADD at her.  "Come on, little girl.  We haven't got all day.  You can write, can't you?"

She nodded and gripped the stylus.  Everyone called her Natasha or just Nata, but she knew her "Christian name."  It had belonged to his aunt, who had died suddenly not long after Natasha was born.  It was what had brought Aunt Tatyana to Turkana, to be with her brothers.  Natasha did not remember the older aunt, but she liked what people had said about her and the images of a elegant lady with features like her father's, sitting on beautiful furniture, or standing in a nicely cut rose garden.  Aunt Tatyana had learned all her grace from the lady, which her young niece, too, had eyed with desire every time she came for lessons or merely to visit.  Yes, Natasha knew her name, and all that came with it: Good feelings and memories, closeness, warmth and love--everything her family had been.  

So with shaking hands, Natasha managed to write "Наталія" and "Яр-" before stylus and the PADD were ripped away.

"What the hell is this!?" the man demanded, glaring at her.  "Fucking ignorant Settler!  Jurra!  What is this?"

"That's a 'ya" sound, there--backwards 'R.'"

"It's backwards, all right."

"Yar, Hataria," Jurra said, squinting.  "Hold on, I can barely read this."

"That is wrong!  I am called Nata--" Natasha chirped, but Mr. Dolina pushed her back.

"Ah!  The little Settler speaks!"  Dyson was still notating on the PADD.

"I was not finished!" she complained to Mr. Dolina.

"Quiet!" he whispered, and then told the soldier, "She is called Natasha."

"Better."  He tapped at the PADD again.  "Yar, Natasha."

"Not 'gully!'"  Natasha scowled at him.  "My family name is Yaroviy!"  

"Looks like Yar to me, then," Dyson returned with a nod and tapped on his PADD.  "Easy enough."

"But Tato--"

Mr. Dolina spun her around to bend to her ear.  "He would have left them to their will, girl," he whispered.  "He was no fool.  Be still and pay attention, as he did.  Ignore their lies.  Always watch, closely!  And listen to your foe so not let them hear _you_."

She did not want to be a cadre's name.

"Parents?"

"Deceased," Mr. Dolina supplied.

"Names?"

"Ilya and Larissa."

"Lyle and Laura Yar," Dyson notated, staring at Natasha now to watch her eyes round with protest until Mr. Dolina shook her arm roughly.  Dyson then looked at Mrs. Dolina's burden, now awake and squirming to get down.  "And what's this?"

"Irisha," Mrs. Dolina answered promptly, trying to not glance at the boys, who were growing impatient to hide from the soldiers.  They kept looking at the barn....

"Watch that one!"

"Move any farther, kid, and you're dead!  Wanna die today?"

Olek froze in his place.

Natasha tugged on Mr. Dolina's sleeve.  "I cannot have them make my name that--"

"Do as they say!" he barked back.

"But Nataliya Yaroviy is my name!  What I was given.  I am called Natasha by friends, but I was told they have Nataliya as my given name in the computer, and that I always should call myself that when--"

"What the hell is she babbling about?" one of the soldiers demanded.

Natasha stared at him.  "My name!  Nataliya Ilyivna Yaroviy is in the computer and--"

Grabbing her by the shoulder, Mr. Dolina flung Natasha around and threw her onto the ground.  Crying out, she swung a look back up to the old man.  "I will kill you myself if you do not shut up!" Mr. Dolina bellowed.  

Gasping in terror, Natasha saw the soldiers' brown boots now, instead, walking around them and shepherding the boys back close to them.  Their rifles hanging from their fingers at their sides, the two soldiers had no resistance.  

Just past them, she saw Polina near to a faint, shaking her head.  "Nata, no," she mouthed.

Natasha bent her head.  "I am Natalyia Ilyivna Yaroviy," she whispered to herself, but clenched her teeth to silence herself otherwise.

"Irisha Yaroviy," Mrs. Dolina said.  "--Yar, as you called it.  It is Yaroviy, sir."

For all her fear of the woman, Natasha felt a flush of gratitude wash through her at Mrs. Dolina's correction.  But the relief was short-lived.

"That one's sister?"

"Yes, sir," Mrs. Dolina said.

He tapped on his tablet a few times then nodded.  "Sharon Yar."

Natasha frowned angrily.

"How old?"

"One and one half years."

"And you," Dyson went on, looking at the trembling girl now hiding behind Mrs. Dolina.  "I haven't missed you.  What's your name?"

A minute later, Natasha's best friend was officially "Paula Grubeck" on the soldiers' PADDs.

Still crouched on the ground, Natasha indeed said nothing.  That time, the tears did not come, either, but her steady frown and furrowed brow said everything, instead.  Matviy's words came back to her, as clear as when he had said it first: The soldiers were devils.  They did not care about people.  They had no love in their hearts, no souls.  They should all be dead.  They deserved to be dead.  

But still, she said nothing, and did nothing, but waited, and watched.

The soldiers left upon finishing their "census," the one called Jurra turning back to say in Unified, "The Coalition will order all those left out here to the tunnels soon."

"That day is not here, I hope?" Mr. Dolina called back.

"Not today."

"Good.  Thank you."  Mr. Dolina turned away and growled.  "That one has some manners, but they all are beasts.  I will die in a pool of my cold, black blood before crawling into tunnels."

"Like a rat," Mrs. Dolina confirmed.  "I will not leave this farm alive."

Natasha did not understand why they would want to die when Mr. Dolina was pressing them to stay alive so much, but she did muster enough courage to go to Mrs. Dolina and tug on the arm of her shirt.  "Thank you for telling them about my name, Mrs. Dolina," she said.

The older woman blinked a sort of nod then jerked her chin toward the barn.  "Back to work, girl!"

Natasha took Polina away.  As they walked, she heard Mr. Dolina snort derisively.  "They changed all our names--rewriting their history and their future.  And so stupid, they recorded Anja as her grandmother and Natasha and the baby under _another_ Ukrainian name!"

"Fools on Satan's mission!" Mrs. Dolina rejoined, setting Irisha down and giving her a pat on the bottom to propel her into the house.  The toddler stomped off, unbothered by events as ever.  "They rewrite the world so to control it all."

"So they will think we all are dead--then they will stay away, as promised."  Mr. Dolina grunted.  "And the cadres get what they wanted all along, just as their sort does."

Their scoffing meant nothing to Natasha.  The name was wrong.  It was not her father's name, that he had loved so well and told her to love, too, along with their beautiful family and home.  It took even more away from her, and made her into their lies.

"They are erasing us," Anja said, repeating the Dolinas' words as she followed Natasha and Polina out.  Pulling on her gloves, she nodded toward the black cloud in the sky, where the city and lands still burned.  "They could not kill us all, so they erase us, instead, and make it seem to them and the Federation that they won everything and everyone."

"They did win," Marko muttered in passing, on his way to the field with a bucket.  "And we _are_ killed--only, we still breathe."

Returning to their piles of hay, Natasha bent to pick one up.  With a cry, she heaved and punched it.  It barely budged at first, and would not until she put her full weight up against it.

* * *

Three weeks later, she could push it easily and roll the hay into the barn.  Part of it was for having to do it every day, but it was also brittle and dry thanks to the utter lack of rain, punctuated by the steady gloom of ash that filled the sky and left everything grey.  And always, there was fire, slowly blackening the hills to the west where the land stretched out in a seemingly endless blanket.  Once, the blanket had been green and hazy blue.  Natasha tried to remember how green it had been.  She was starting to miss that color very much.

There was green, of course, in the firs to the south, great, billowing conifers that Natasha used to look at from the window of her room, at her old house, and she watched the long, white birds float to a landing onto the nests at the tops.  She imagined being carried away on the downy birds, floating over the land and the water to the west.

The birds were gone.

If the soldiers kept doing what they were everywhere else, the firs would go soon, too.

At least Natasha was thankful for dry weather.  Though it and the cooling weather had made the world brown, it _had_ made their chores much easier.  Polina took them from her once one was in place, loosing the hay and hauling it into the trough.  Natasha finished up by freshening the barn's floor that she had mucked earlier.

Mr. Dolina was not certain how much longer they would be able to make hay.  

She had turned six years old weeks ago, according to the chronometer in the kitchen, but there had been no joy to know it.  There had not even been an acknowledgment, save a kiss from Polina, who, though still terrified of everything, had not forgotten her.  Natasha, in turn, did not stray far from her best friend.  Polina was like a baby bird, always shaking, jerking and peeping to herself without meaning, but Natasha always knew she could make her feel better, and wanted to.  They held hands on the way to the barn and planned things they would do together, and they took care of each other, always.

Hours after their chores were completed, while the others listened to the comm, which broadcast far more static than intelligible information now, Polina took her turn combing knots out of Natasha's hair and singing softly,

"The Magpie-Crow was sitting on the stovetop, cooking porridge for the children  
I gave to this one, I gave to this one, I gave to this one, I gave to this one,  
And I shall not give to this one.  
Because this one did not chop the wood, did not make the dough,  
Did not go for water, did not look after the children, did not do anything.  
And the one who does no work, does not eat!"

Natasha grinned at the song.  They had sung the tune in school, holding hands in a circle and laughing as the "lazy" one in the middle sat on a bench and acted silly while the "crow" flapped and fed them for doing their work.  It was serious business to many of the children, but the parents all laughed and enjoyed the silliness, an image that never failed to amuse Natasha in turn.  

But then her grin melted.  Those silly children who couldn't get off Turkana in time were probably dead.  Only Polina and Marko seemed to have survived Mirneselo.

As for the rest...

"We work but we have no porridge."

Natasha shrugged.  "We have food."

"Until the soldiers come to take that, too."  Polina looked up.  "Will they come, Natasha?"  Her voice had grown very small.  She followed it with a little tremor, as she always did now, and then a twitch of her arms.

Natasha did not soften the truth despite it.  "Yes, they will come.  They take what they want.  They will take our food, too, when they want it."

"I want them to stay away."

Natasha hoped, too, though she did not want to voice it.  Sighing, she scooted onto her knees and took the comb from Polina.  "I want a turn."

* * *

_"When will you and Tato come, Mama?"_

_"As soon as we can. Take care of Irisha and yourself and we will deal with the bad men. Be careful, my love--and do not be seen! Go through the fields!"_

_"Larisa, I am going out."_

_"Ilya, you--"_

_"Send the girls_ now _, Larisa."_

_"They are almost here, now. Go, go, now! I love you, Nataliya. I will be with you always. Do not be afraid. Go!"_

Natasha jolted up from her blanket, shuddering in her breaths.  Little cries came with each exhale.  Her face was wet and hot, and she was running--her feet, still kicking at the blankets.

"Mamo," she breathed...  "Tato..."

She heard a shuffling in the dark--not Polina, who hadn't woken that she could hear.  Scrambling back against the cold wall, she tried to see the shape coming in the slight light cast from the stairs...

 _"Stay away from the soldiers!"_ Matviyko had told her, close to her ear as he led her away from the soldiers in the city, who watched them and grinned, hands resting on their weapons.  _"They will steal your soul!"_

It had to be so terribly painful to have one's soul ripped away.  But the soldiers seemed not to care about that.  They would take everything they could.

The figure in the dark continued to approach, but Natasha could go no farther without climbing on top of Polina.

"You will not steal my soul," Natasha warned, a sliver beneath her sobs.  "You cannot have what I do not give you!"

Silence, then...

"I am not going to hurt you, Natasha."  It was Anja.  "You had a nightmare, and I want to help."

Natasha finally saw her--a little, anyway, in the scant light glowing from the safety globes at the top of the stairs.  Finally feeling her way around the crates that Natasha had set up around her and Polina's space, the teenager sat on the edge of her blankets and touched her still shaking leg.  "It is gone," Natasha dismissed.

"You were remembering your parents."

"They are always in my dreams," Natasha whispered, "every night, every morning."  Her eyes began to sting again, but she breathed over it.  "I cannot stop dreaming about the soldiers when they killed them, and Mama...falling on Tato..."

Anja squeezed Natasha's leg.  "I think about my parents, too...though I did not see them die.  I only know..."  Anja quieted for a moment.  "What helps me, Natasha, is trying very hard, all of the time, to think about when they were alive, when they were beautiful and loving me, and about all of my friends at school, and...well, the good times, before.  The soldiers steal our souls when we give away our good memories, and think only about the ones they have given us.  Mr. Dolina is correct that we must never forget what happened and what was taken--all of the good that was taken from us."

"Remembering makes me want my family more, and want our house, and...everything."

"I know.  But sometimes the more difficult thing is better."

Anja finally got herself down on the blankets and looked around at her space.  Smiling a little, she gestured at the shelves.  "You have made a nice little place for you and Polina."  She touched her Yevak schoolbag.  "I remember you there.  Your teachers liked you.  They talked about you often, how special you are."

Natasha nodded a little.  "I never felt special...only lucky."

"If you want me to teach you more, I will, when we have time here.  I was in the Governor's School.  I might know enough to teach you something."

Staring up into the teenager's face, which tried to hold up its pleasant turn, Natasha almost said no, but she could not.  Instead, she said nothing, but nodded again and got into her covers.

Anja pulled the blanket over her shoulder and left her to the darkness.  "Try thinking about the day before the fall, Natasha, and then the day before that.  You had a big family.  Remembering them will keep them alive in you, and make the soldiers the losers."

"Is that what you do?"

"I try to, yes.  I have nothing else.  Come, try to sleep again.  Tomorrow, we will go through your bag after our morning work."

Natasha closed her eyes.  Only blackness met her, but she soon was asleep nonetheless.

* * *

Winter came not only quite late, but unusually to the Turkanan continent that year.  Not nearly the frozen winter like at her uncle's house on Earth, it was cold nonetheless at night, crisp during the day and terribly dry.  Mr. Dolina said it was the ash in the sky, holding the cold to the earth and preventing rain.  Yet as the sky began to clear a little, leaving only a yellow haze between them and the sun, the cold increased.  It still did not bring any rain.  They worked anyway, in the deep morning chill without gloves until they were warm.  But their hands still grew numb, and there weren't enough coats for them all.

Because of that, the children were allowed shifts inside to rest, down in the basement, where the geothermal heating kept the floor warm and the room relatively moist.  Natasha took that time alone to finally look at the things her mother had packed and she had taken into the basement on her first day there.  Many clothes for them all--even some of Matviyko's and Roman's favorite things, compressed and flat against the bottom of her parents' bag.  Natasha had a good supply of basic clothing and three pairs of boots.  Irisha's things were already with Mrs. Dolina.

Her schoolbag from Yevak had been liberated by Anja and sorted neatly on the shelf.  Turning to her bed, Natasha pulled some of the blankets up to look again at what she had placed beneath them.  Three spacesafe boxes stood out among the odd socks and craft needles.  Lightweight but able to withstand nearly any force put against it, her mother had always said she kept the most precious things of their lives in there for safety.

Natasha did not have the sequence to get into them.  Sighing, she returned them to the "head" of her bed.  Another day, she would try.  She did not want to ask for help.

Her mother's favorite shawl remained the centerpiece of Natasha's corner.  It had been the first thing she had pulled off the cart and the one thing she jealously guarded.

It all was in order, as it had been the day before.

"Natasha!  Come back to work, girl!  The coop needs raking!"

"Yes, Mrs. Dolina!" Natasha answered and moved to stand.  Thinking twice, she turned and found a pair of her father's dark socks, which had been among the "pillow" items.  Hooking up her sweater, she pulled the woolens onto her hands and made her way around to the stairs.

All of the kids wanted socks only a few minutes later, and Natasha was sorry for her idea, particularly when she was forced to part with the rest of her father's socks on Mrs. Dolina's orders--and to stay out longer, too, because she had caused such a stir.

The regret did not last.  Natasha went through her day fully engaged, working in the chicken house, cleaning and gathering what few root vegetables they could glean from the garden at that time of the year.  The cadres had closed off all supplies, so they lived entirely off the farm.  The lack of supplies did have drawbacks, however.  Mr. Dolina did not dare burn wood and make smoke that could bring the soldiers back, and the solar cells could only charge the reactor a little with the haze blocking much of the radiation they needed.  The geothermal loop was likewise affected for the worse, and there was no way for the Dolinas to repair that, too.

"The bastards took out the loops," Mr. Dolina grumbled one day, "so no one could live but by their means."

He came for her later that day, when she had knelt at the edge of the garden, watching Olek take the cow into the deep field.  Mrs. Dolina had gotten the milk and the eggs that Natasha and Polina had collected.  Polina had brought them in, but instead of following her, Natasha had wandered back out.  Then, kneeling, she mindlessly watched Olek and the cow.  Mrs. Dolina was becoming so frustrated with the poor creature--with all the creatures, in fact, for they could not give her all she wanted of them.

 _"Do not make friends with the animals,"_ Mr. Dolina had warned then in the first days, when Polina had petted the cow.  Now Natasha understood why.  Like everything else, the animal was for use alone, and would be killed and eaten when the Dolinas saw the need.  Natasha felt for the creature.  How horrible it must be to have to live as nothing but use for others!

But then, she felt a little like that sometimes.  At least the cow did not realize how terrible its life was.

A large hand appeared before her, and she jumped a little before looking up into Mr. Dolina's heavy, red face.  "Come, girl.  We are going to have a look in the countryside."  He looked over.  "Anja!  You too!  Wrap your head and come!"

The teenager nodded and pulled a thick scarf out of her pocket to wrap about her head.  Her curly, dark hair popped out of it at every angle, but she did not bother to neaten it.  She used to, but not anymore.

Mr. Dolina's hand still was in front of her.  Natasha took it and got to her feet.  Then he let her go.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"Mirneselo," he answered quietly.  "We will see if anything is left that we can use.  Our supplies here will not last forever, so we will have to use what little is left, if there is any."  Both girls stopped in their tracks, but he only coughed a laugh at their horror.  "The dead need nothing!  --But do not talk about it with the others before we know what we can get from our good neighbors."

Ducking into the barn, he snatched the handle of the antigrav cart Natasha had brought with her, but he did not activate it, settling for its wheels.  "Come, girls!  We leave now!"

Natasha trudged up to walk at Mr. Dolina's side.  Looking behind her, she saw Anja adjusting her scarf and not looking up.

They none of them knew what they might find--if anything--in the East District's largest village, which lay just over two kilometers north of the Dolinas' farm, over the Patris River Bridge and then the ridge road.  During their walk, they found few clues, and in fact relaxed into a steady pace, strangely silent save the occasional bump of the cart's wheel on the path.  Natasha had walked the river road many times with her Uncle Luka when he brought all of the children fishing.  Natasha did not like the fishing, but enjoyed the woods and the river.  She could sit for an hour and watch the water ripple over the rocks, gurgling, catching a leaf or a branch, and the color of the moss, the feel of the cool, slippery wet.  Birds would dance along the far edge, pecking for insects, teasing and fluttering unashamedly until they saw the human girl laughing at them.  Natasha had fallen asleep on the shore once, her hand on a mound of soft, yellow moss.  She woke in her father's arms and laughed at the happy surprise as she hugged him tightly.

Wind blew down through the gorge and down the river, making Natasha shiver and shaking the happiness away.  She grunted at her musing, too.  It always hurt more when she remembered.  

Mr. Dolina grunted, too, but for his own reason.  "There should not be so much wind here.  There's nothing to hold it in the gorge."

"Do you think the fire reached that far?"  Anja asked.

"Probably to the river," he answered.  "I hope the bridge is still there, else we will become wet when we cross.  --Not you, Natasha.  I would pull you in the cart."  He shot a stare back at the teenager.  "You are too heavy."

Natasha said nothing.  She was still feeling her father's arms around her and the sweet sounds of the river...which were still there.  She could hear the gurgling when the wind died down.  But looking over, she gasped.  "Mr. Dolina!  Look!"

The water was grey, and the rocks were black.  There was so little water in the river, too, that dead fish lie rotted on the shores.  Thinking about that, she looked up.  There were no birds.

"Great God," Mr. Dolina muttered.  "They will kill us all.  All of us."  But shaking himself, he jerked the cart ahead a notch and barked, "Come!  The bridge is close!"

The bridge was charred.

Mr. Dolina tested it and crossed.  "Come!" he ordered again, now in a completely foul mood.  His brow had drawn down as it often did when he was close to exploding with anger, and his footsteps thudded on the greyed dirt.

Natasha stared down at it.  There was no grass.  She remembered it had been green once.  And then it struck her as her eyes rose from there.  There was nothing green there at all.  The entire ridge had been burnt to the ground.  Mirneselo was probably much the same.  Her stomach felt sick, and her eyes began to sting.  

"You are going to see bad things in Mirneselo," Mr. Dolina told them, etched with gravel and yet gentle, too--quiet and not demanding.  "You will see death, you will see ashes and maybe you will recognize things.  Remember that everything there feels no pain.  The body is only a shell, a casket to hold our soul.  And all of the souls of Mirneselo were freed with nothing to regret.  The devils who did this? Their souls will burn in torment for eternity!  They will find ultimate justice someday!"

"There will be dead people?" Natasha asked, feeling her heart race at the thought.  She knew almost everyone in Mirneselo.  She and her mother would visit the grandmothers and sit with other mothers, and everyone at the school knew them...

"Not people, Natasha.  Shells--bodies, or what is left of them.  If the fire left anything behind, they will be only bones--unless the cadres cleared the land.  We shall see."  He looked down at her.  "The body is a shell, Natasha.  Remember that always!  Your soul is all that is important, and lives forever when the body is no longer useful."

Mirneselo had been a beautiful place once.  Modeled after the Settlers' home, the village was settled on either side of the wide Vostok Avenue, with tall, cottage-like buildings, the secondary and Yevak schools included.  Those were buildings of beautiful marble and blue-tinged glass, and always, Natasha heard lessons pouring out from those windows.  Blocks ran behind the main street, lined with houses situated right on the way, all washed with white, trimmed with dark brown and topped with red, round-shingled roofs.  An occasional flowerbed stretched in front of the house, guarded by grandmothers or men sitting on benches, busy with something or another but mostly chatting amongst one another.  They often had some sort of work in their hands, and sometimes Natasha's mother would stop to join them in their crafts whilst talking about one friend or another.

The chatter and the business echoed down those back streets without fail, and the roads always smelled of fresh bread or coffee.

Now it smelled of soot and something Natasha could not name, but only knew was bad, and everything was grey and black.

Everything.

Natasha did not even think they were in the correct place, for it all looked so different, all of the buildings, all of the trees and flowers, all of the _life_ , gone.

"Too late to cry, girl," she heard Mr. Dolina growl; belatedly, she realized that Anja had been overcome by the sight.  For herself, Natasha was simply too shocked to think of tears.  It could not be the same place.

Mr. Dolina, simply wanting to do what was needed, yanked the cart and got them moving forward into the blackened silence, toward the first block of shelled-out buildings.  There had been no rain, so all lay probably much as it did when the very fires went out, and true to his promise, they soon came upon what was mostly a skeleton lying on its face.  Natasha could not tell if it had been a man or a woman.

Mr. Dolina got down on a knee and rocked the thing back a little; then he nodded.  "Yeah, he was shot first."

So it was a he.  Natasha stared at it, thinking she might feel more, perhaps, if she thought she might recognize the poor man.  But it looked rather more like the decorations Standard-speaking people sometimes put up to celebrate frightening things.

The next person they saw did not.  That one had not been burned.

Anja stood frozen to find it, the shrunken corpse, lying on her side, hands outstretched, mouth open.  The skin looked dry, dark and wrapped to her bones.  Her hair looked to have come loose from the thick scarf on her head, and it stuck out like black hay, half-stuck to the sooty ground.

Natasha found herself frozen, too, to stare at her.

Anja immediately noticed.  "Come, Natasha!  You should not have to look--"

"I already have!"

"But you must not linger."

Natasha nodded but did not break her gaze "We have to look, like Mr. Dolina says, so we are not sad for them anymore.  They are free."

The old man had already left the wagon to peek into the shell of one of the buildings.  "Good girl!  Smart, like your mother!"  Clopping around to look into the next space, he shot both girls a stare askance.  They still stood by the corpse "What? You know her?"

"Miss Yakura," Natasha quietly replied.  Miss Yakura came to give tests--fun tests that Natasha enjoyed--then bring her to her next class.  Natasha had not been impressed by her face, but certainly had loved her laughter.  She thought it was like little wind chimes.  Now, again, Natasha did not know what to feel--even sad.  She felt...nothing.  "She worked at the Yevak school."

"Are you certain?"

Natasha nodded.  "Mr. Dolina, why is her body still...good?"

"No rain, cool air, no animals to eat at the meat, if they starve enough to take to a human--but mainly the dry.  Anything left by the fire hasn't been washed away.  --This is why I want us to find what we can now, before it finally rains."  He pushed an automatic door aside with an ironic chuckle then motioned to them.  "Like Natasha says, she has been freed from all this.  We can only hope it was quick.  Probably was.  --Come!  I will show you what we have come to find."

Natasha turned before Anja; looking back, she saw the teenager was indeed affected.  Was that a better way? Was not responding so much to the sight of the dead woman she had known a bad thing? She tried to think about things her mother had said about the dead, but Natasha could remember only one thing.  When her Aunt Nataliya died, her parents and even Aunt Tatyana, who had looked upon Aunt Nataliya as a second mother, had said that their aunt was happy and without pain, a part of all creation.  Mr. Dolina said much the same thing, so perhaps she was _not_ wrong to feel little more than fascination about what happened to bodies after death.

And Natasha straightened to consider that.  The bodies that had not been burned would probably be untouched, left whole, even having been shot with phasers.

The world shrank around her for a moment to think...perhaps hope...

"Come, girls!" Mr. Dolina barked from inside the building.  

Blinking herself back into the ruins of Mirneselo, Natasha reached out to tug on Anja's sleeve.  "Yes, we should go now."

Anja nodded and followed Natasha into the building.  "This was the visitor center," she said when they got inside.  

Mr. Dolina was already head first in a hold in the inner wall.  "This," he told them, pulling out a wired board, "is good.  This is a power card, something we can use when the house begins to lose power, for heat and for lights.  It is weak and is probably damaged, but it will help.  This is one of the things you will look for."  He set it on a metal sheet he'd laid behind him and continued to work.  "Some of the smaller components, we will make weapons with.  We are lucky today.  No one has scavenged here.  We must be all that is left in the country."

That did not make Natasha feel lucky.  

"I thought you were only a farmer," Anja said, squatting to look at the piece.  

Mr. Dolina snorted.  "I am only a farmer now.  Not always, Miss Finik.  I was once young; I once had not many more years than you, and lived in a different way, in a different place; my life was...not on a farm."  He pulled another piece from the hole, a round tube with metals inside.  "This...yes.  See this? This will boost the transponder."

Natasha came close to examine it.  Without thinking, she touched it then turned it over to see the other side.  "Do they all look like this?"

Mr. Dolina shot her a grin.  "Yes.  Good girl!  Look across the street for more!"  He handed her a small tub of red pigment.  "Mark it with this in case we must come back later."

Natasha did just that.  Moving into what she remembered had been a tea shop.

She stepped inside.  Like everything else, it was black...but the tables were still in place.  All of the chairs, toppled...bodies charred beneath...

_"Mariya, where did you find it? So exquisite!"_

_"I have eight hundred meters at my flat if--"_

_Oh, I could never take it--but I would get some if you told me whom to contact."_

_"I will have Mazena contact you.  She will dye and spin what you need.  She has received roving sent from Penza.  You only need to order the amount you need.."_

"I will do that!  I would love some butter yellow for my mother's birthday!"

Natasha could see them from her seat, chatting and laughing, their fingers running over the soft fibers and tiny metal hook to make what quickly became a hat for someone Natasha did not know.  But she stared from over her creamy orange tea, her softly shod feet bouncing lightly against the chair edge.  

_"Will you teach me, Mama?"_

And her mother's large, hazel green eyes turned to gaze lovingly at her.

_"What would you like to learn, Nata?"_

_"Whatever you will teach me, of course!_

"Get down!  Natasha!  Down!"

"In!  Go in!"

Natasha snapped her head around to see Mr. Dolina and Anja sprinting across the street and straight to her.  Gone was the tea shop and the clean, marble floors and tables, and now two huge, filthy hands sprang out to grab her and throw her into what was left of the corner of the room.

And the sounds came too, from her mother's and Mrs. Kitaev's gentle laughter and the clinking of cups and biscuits to a metallic scream that tore at Natasha's gut.  It grew louder as it approached, whining hard in the grey atmosphere, shaking the precarious buildings.  

Mr. Dolina leaned entirely over Natasha and covered her with his coat.  He stank terribly, and Natasha tried not to breathe for the forever it took for the patrol ship to finally pass and leave them and the corpses to be alone once more.  Slowly, the old man rose, but hurled them all down again when a flock of other ships zoomed past.

"They hunt the first one!" Mr. Dolina hissed.

Patrol ships were not unusual.  They heard the small, triangular crafts often, buzzing over the city, around the hills far beyond and over the great wasteland plain that stretched west from Orvo to the planet's single ocean several kilometers away.  Never had the patrol ships come so close to the farm since the city fell, and they had never followed one another before.  Looking up, Natasha saw Mr. Dolina's old face taking in the leftover emissions trickling through the smoky air.  His wrinkled face looked as ashen as the sky.

"This is not good," he muttered, "if they fight in the sky in the East Province.  No good at all comes from this.  --When I send you here, girls, keep your eyes open and all around you!  Your ears open!  Do not be killed for being stupid!"  He took another moment to stare at the sky before jerking a look at Anja.  "We must hurry, then return to the farm!  Pull the cart in here, Anja, and we will collect the cells form that unit."

"Yes, sir," she responded and hurried off to obey.

Finally, Mr. Dolina moved off Natasha, who got up and futilely brushed at the ashes.  Then she rubbed her arm where she had been pressed down on a bump in the floor.  Looking there, she saw another skeleton, and then another after that...

The corner was filled with dead.

"This must have been a closet or back room.  They probably got caught here when the fire went up."  Mr. Dolina's voice was plain enough about it.  Stomping off, he yanked open a blackened door and pulled the wires out of it.

Willing down a sick feeling in her throat, Natasha stepped carefully away....

* * *

Hours later, she saw nothing but her family's charred bodies, crowded in the corner, blackened.  Their clothes zapped from white to black, and grey ashes, and the skin turned to soot.  They reached out to her and she stepped over them, again and again, trying to get out of the corner.

She started to run, but was faced with the corner.

"Natasha!"

_"Go!  Go now, Nataliya!"_

"Natasha, are you ill?"

She jumped and started awake.  Her face was wet and her body was hot.

"Natasha?"

It was Polina.  Seeing her in the dark, she now shivered, and then remembered what her friend had said.  "I am not sick."

"You were gasping, and you are sweating in the cold."

"It was a bad dream.  Go back to sleep."

"Yes, both of you," mumbled Olek from the other side of the basement.  "Or sleep upstairs."

Natasha turned over and put her head onto her mother's soft shawl.  Reaching up, feeling the beautiful pattern, she tried to do what Anja had said to do: She tried to think of when her mother had crocheted it, when she was beautiful and whole, with a heart-shaped face and bountiful, honey brown hair pinned heavily up; large, round green eyes and a full mouth, always turned with a little smile.  Her long fingers turned over the hook and yarn without her looking at it.  Her plain, straight skirt always came over her long, brown boots, hiding slim legs that were crossed at the ankle...

Fires whooshed through the room and left her black, her needlework melted and dripping from skeletal fingers.

Natasha's eyes opened to more blackness, and she did not breathe, and did not move.

The pit in her chest continued to grow all night with the sound of crackling ashes and puffs of flame, as she did not sleep and remained without moving, and she still saw nothing in the basement's darkness until the first sparks of the new day, another day after the fall.

* * *

After the small successes at Mirneselo, Mr. Dolina sent them all out, two-by-two, to wander to the other burned out villages at dawn or at dusk, when they could see just enough but could not themselves be easily seen by any patrols above.  Keeping close to the walls and alleys, they grabbed all they could drag back to the back barn in the antigrav wagon Natasha had brought from her house.  

At Mirneselo, Natasha, Olek and Anja found surviving handheld devices, power cards and half-spent medkits.  At Solkara, after an initiation by Mr. Dolina, Marko and Polina dug into exposed cellars and pulled out wire bales and thermal sheets, which they dragged back, Polina so exhausted that Marko put her on top of the rubble instead of making her walk.

They took the paths in the woods as long as they could, their eyes and ears open, and stayed close to the edges of the structures as often that they could--for good reason.

"In!  Go in!"

Anja grabbed her sleeve and nearly ripped it as the patrol zoomed up and quickly slowed.

Throwing themselves under a sheet of metal, they curled into balls and waited.

Everywhere they went, now that they were going places, the cadres seemed to be looking for people.  When they were farther away, they could see the ships slow and stop, and then fire upon some unfortunate point.  Then they moved on.

"They will not find us," Anja promised determinedly.  "We will be like the rest of the dead, and then we will get what we look for and go back."

"I hope it goes south," Natasha said, though she fully expected it would turn around and make all Anja's reassurances useless.

"To the farm? Are you--"

"Away from Solkara," Natasha cut in.  "Polina is frightened of the ships."

"And you are not?" Anja returned, almost teasing.

"I am afraid," Natasha said, "but I am not like Polina."

There, Anja did not argue.  Taking another look and stilling them again for a few more seconds, she pulled them up from the pile of death.  They seemed to be everywhere, the more they dug into the city.  Anja guessed that the people had been crowded back into what shelters they could find before the buildings had been set aflame.

"So terrible!" she had said, shaking her head at the remains of a house they both remembered: Mr. Reyda's wood house.  He had been a craftsman in the ancient style, carving miniatures from any stick or block the children could bring him.  It had been burnt to nearly nothing--nothing save the components in his house computer, which they pulled carefully from its case and set in the wagon Mr. Dolina had fashioned for them.  

Looking around, Natasha did not see his corpse there.  She was glad.  She decided that she did not like recognizing the dead.

Despite that conclusion, they took far less notice of them after a few trips into the village.  Polina called them broken people as they huddled together at night.  She did all she could to avoid seeing them.  The boys said nothing about it at all--but Anja said boys were like that.  They felt but usually said little.  Accordingly, Mr. Dolina reminded them that the dead were like parts they could not use, yet they should be remembered fairly, and the cadres would burn in damnation for how they put them there.  Natasha knew she _shouldn't_ curse people, but she silently did, and she agreed with his view of the dead, having seen so many, now.  The villagers had no movement, nor breath.  Indeed, those were empty shells and of no use to them.

And yet, they had been people, which gave Natasha's hunts particular purpose--or perhaps direction.  Always in Mirneselo, her eyes drew south, to the hill she knew from as far as she could remember.  She had come over that hill on the thin road countless times with her mother, hands entwined, their baskets swinging from their free arms, Irisha often bound up in the sling, asleep.  Natasha knew every tree that had been on the route, every stone that marked their turn at each of three intersections.  She knew by the smell of the air how the weather was and sometimes how warm it would be in the afternoon if her mother had them out long past lunch.  She remembered walking back to the house with Matviyko and Roman after school, the sun on her back, and the feel of the sweet wind from the wastrel plain, swirling around to turn her long hair.  It always carried the smell of spices, as did the heavy grass, swaying in time....

Natasha often stopped her hunting in Mirneselo to look south, to the way back.  Beyond her sooty, aching hands and filthy coat, she saw the plain full of grass and flowers, and she could almost see them there, jogging and jostling and encouraging her to hurry.

_"Come Nata!  We will get no dinner if Roma gets there first!"_

_"Matviy!  You are silly!  Mama always hides at least one bowl, and she will give that one to me!"_

His riotous laughter echoed hard in her ears.

The wind stank of dust and death, now.  Nothing lived in the East District anymore, but there could be other memories, there.

It would rain eventually, taking away what might be left.

Was there anything left? And what would she do if there was?

She could see through her breath in the air her mother walking alone along the road.  Her basket now emptied of her wares and full of others', swinging on her arm, her coat skirt swinging in equal time with her steady stride, she moved toward the hill, toward home.

Was there anything left? What would it be like?

_"Larisa, I am going out."_

_"Ilya, you--"_

_"Send the girls_ now _, Larisa."_

_"They are almost here, now.  Go, go, now!  I love you, Nataliya.  I will be with you always.  Do not be afraid.  Go!"_

Her eyes remained fixed on the hill.

Could she help them?

* * *

Natasha looked out at the moons, rising full in the dusky, polluted sky, and she shivered.  The cold had finally set into the day.  Looking over at Mr. Dolina, bent over the heater unit he was busy rebuilding with parts gotten at Solkara, she drew a deep breath and told herself to do it.  

"May Polina and I go out with the wagon?"

He raised a brow her way--which she had expected.  None of them had ever _asked_ to go hunting for parts yet.

"My chores are finished, and I am not tired.  I want to go back to Nolanik and try to get the transponder we left behind."  

Nolanik was a five-house settlement just north of Mirneselo, just a little circle in the road.  She had been there the day before with Marko, and they had found a great deal together--enough that they had reported having to leave things behind.

"I want to walk, and maybe we can find a few more things before dark.  I will not go to Mirneselo."

Mr. Dolina continued to eye her suspiciously, but Natasha knew well enough by then that her plain and patient face was enough to sway him.  He then looked at the sky, probably listening for patrols.  Natasha had been listening, too.  It had been quiet that day, which had been a part of her decision to ask him what she had.  Finally, he jerked a nod.  "Be careful."  He put a black hat over her head, warned her about the patrols and turned to yell at the house.

"Polina!  Dress for a walk and go with Natasha!  You go to Nolanik!  Now!"

After a series of brash reinforcements from Mrs. Dolina, Polina stumbled out of the house with red eyes and boots too big for her feet.  Natasha took her hand and grabbed the wagon handle.  "Come!  We will not be long if we hurry to the road."

"I do not want to go," Polina whispered.

"I will not be allowed to go alone" Natasha whispered back.  "Please, Polina.  Do this for me."

Natasha did not follow the stream to the Patris River road, but crossed to go up the hill as soon as they were out of sight.

Polina immediately knew their direction and drew back.  "You cannot want to go there!" she protested.

"Being so close is difficult," Natasha at last confessed, renewing her pace with a hard breath that fogged then blew away.  "I know where they are.  I know where they fell.  I want to see if anything is left before it gets wet.  Mr. Dolina says it always is very wet when the winter ends.  We will not be able to climb the hill, and they might be washed away.  Come--or go back and I will let them punish me for lying."

She said this now with a determination and dispassion that belied her heart.  Since first seeing the dead in the village, she ached even more for her family, her mother's arms around her, warm and safe, and her father's gentle laugh.  They never left her thoughts, now, even when she was very busy with farm chores.  Secretly, she kept them there, hugging them back, rubbing her face in her mother's beautiful hair, reaching up to her father's waiting arms.  The ache was worse for it, but she never stopped thinking about them.  She heard their sweet voices, her brothers' laughter, her aunts and uncles, all around her...  Not lost, not taken, they lived in the one safe place left: Inside of her.

How could she not want to look at the place and the people from which she had been forced to run away? And maybe she _would_ find something there.

So they trudged over the crackling grass and climbed up the hill, once green, now little more then straw.  Then they came up the hill, and then a little more, and then they stopped.  

Natasha looked now without blinking.

It was as bad as her nightmares said it would be.  

There was nothing left of her house but beams, metal siding and boards, all sticking crookedly up from the charred foundation.  Certainly nothing of her room or any other bedroom remained, nor of the great room.  Strangely, the glass door she had run through to leave her house the last time were still in tact, as was the patio behind it, but they all were blackened.  The ground to the south of the house was, too, as was her swing and the tree holding it.  The seat hung ominously from the remains of a single rope, melted against the gaping trunk.

Natasha stepped forward.

Metal from the outside of the house lay around and over components from the old comm system in her father's den nook.  Spotting the edge of one, Natasha pulled the sheet of siding away to pick it up.  Her father's transceiver.  Her gut shrank.

_"Silly Tato and his programs!  But the transceiver is broken, darling, remember? We must fix it when we come home."_

Mama had been lying.  She had lied for good reasons.

Natasha pulled at the box.  It came loose easily.  Its bearings were not attached to anything anymore.  "Help me," she said quietly to Polina, who came immediately and lifted the other end of the comm system.  Loading it into the wagon, they wiped their hands on their coats and started poking at the rubble for more, pulling away sheets of metal and what small beams they could manage.

There was nothing left of the kitchen at all--or so Natasha thought.  Looking closely, she saw a red and yellow kitchen tile beneath some matted dust.  She bent to pick it up and put it in her pocket.

Polina put something else in the wagon.  Natasha thought about her mother's bread.  Tosha was nowhere to be seen.  None of the furnishings had survived the fire.  The big metal stove was black and partially melted in places.

Polina pulled the wagon around to the back of the house.  Natasha looked south.  Then she stared.  

Then she breathed.

Numbly, her feet moved, and her shadow fell upon the black ground, dancing over the mounds of useless rubble.  She had walked through many just like it, houses of other dead families, destroyed lives, stolen memories.  But none had discernible remains.  

None had...her parents.

They had not moved from where they had fallen.  Like some of the people in Mirneselo, nothing had touched them.  They lay as they had died.  Somehow, miraculously, as though Natasha's most fervent prayers had indeed had weight, nothing had harmed them.  Shrunken and hollow, like all of the others who had not been burnt, it was merely like their water had been taken away from them, and this _was_ upsetting to Natasha, for they did not look well at all.  Her mother's round, soft face was no longer pretty.  She could not see her father's but she was certain it looked as bad.  Still, they were not burnt--not at all--and their clothes were there, almost just like they had been; the ring on her mother's collapsed finger lay slightly crooked against the cement.  Only a little dirt, blown from the now barren hill, marred them.  

Her parents.

Suddenly catching the present again, Natasha backed quickly away and ran back to Polina.  "Help me!" she said.  "Help me cover them!"

"What?"  Polina was horrified.

"The rains will come!  It will hurt them!  Please, Polya!"

Polina did not want to, but after several more entreaties, she staggered forward and did as Natasha asked.  But then, Natasha knew she would--and knew she had to.  It was the best thing they could do.  They surely could not leave them there.  Of course Polina knew that.  

So, grabbing a loose sheet of metal, they pulled as hard as they could and brought it over.  Collecting some blocks and more metal, she directed her friend to help her line the cement with the blocks.  This took the most time, as they had to drag the blocks from the house.  When Polina became too tired, Natasha told her to roll the blocks onto a small metal sheet then pull the sheet to the cement.  This the smaller girl did until Natasha was satisfied that the surround was complete.  Then they used the metal sheets to lay on the blocks, covering the corpses.  A few more blocks on top of that and on the corners secured the whole.  It was sloppy, but they were safe.

Natasha slumped over a little to catch her breath.  "I will come back and make it better," she promised, more directed at the ground than at a clearly uncomfortable and now exhausted Polina.  Natasha paid her no mind.  Excited, frightened, barely thinking but full of thoughts, her heart was pounding in her chest.  She wanted nothing more than to stay there and make a good box for them to be under, like the raised place that her Aunt Nataliya's jar was placed in, by so many other family members in the white stone house in Kovalivka.  

But it was getting cold, and Polina's teeth were chattering.  It would be dark soon, and with the dark came the patrols.  Worse, Mr. Dolina would ask questions if they stayed out too long.  "I will make it better," she said again and grabbed Polina's hand to go back to the Dolinas'.  Her friend said nothing and did not look back.  Natasha did many times before they vacated the hill.

And somehow, she was not afraid anymore, now that she knew what was there.  And maybe Mr. Dolina was right that crying never helped, and that doing only what they needed to do was the best thing to do.  It had helped her to see her house and to save her parents from the oncoming weather.

They had looked terrible, but Natasha had not felt so happy since the fall.

Mr. Dolina was at the kitchen door when they came back, standing on the block with his arms crossed.  The last rays of the winter sun stabbed at his heavy creases.  "What have you brought?"

"A transceiver and some other pieces," Natasha reported as Polina silently hurried past him and into the door.  Mrs. Dolina's barks greeted her immediately.  Poor Polina had been so horrified, Mrs. Dolina might have been a relief.  "I thought there had been more."

"Eh," he grunted.  "Boys probably got the rest.  More of those survive than power cards.  Okay.  Put it in the building and get to bed.  More scavenging tomorrow."

Natasha's lips twitched up.  "Yes, Mr. Dolina."

* * *

Natasha spent the following days sneaking up to her house to pull apart what she could and move it into a better position, though she realized that she did not know how she should build what she saw in her mind.  Returning with numb fingers and little to show for her journeys out, she took Mr. Dolina's corrections absently.  Her mind was still on what she had to do.  On the other hand, Mrs. Dolina was increasingly livid at her decreasing successes and did not let her get out of the kitchen without a threat at best of punishment.

Polina was terrified of the big, red woman and so begged Natasha not to take her to the house anymore.  Natasha only nodded and returned to her musing, her mind was on her parents and on the rain, ever closer as the winter passed.  They had protected her.  She could not stop herself from protecting them.

Running a hand through her dark hair, freshly washed and curling quickly, Anja came down the stairs to her place in the basement.  She had made a nice corner for herself across from where Natasha and Polina slept, and had shielded it with a short shelf.  She was particular about her privacy sometimes.  Inside, she had a thin mattress and a pile of orange and yellow blankets from the Dolinas' collection, and a small solar lamp.  On the shelf, she had neatly folded the clothing she had brought with her--all that she had that was entirely hers.

Natasha glanced at Polina, who, as always, drifted into silence only to hold her knees to her chest and rock, staring ahead as though she were the only person in the room.  She looked like a baby when she did that, Natasha thought.

Her eyes found Anja's direction again.

* * *

"You have _what_?"

Natasha repeated herself, forcing her calm as she stared up at the teenager, whose deep green eyes had grown nearly circular in her surprise.  Standing in the middle of the river road with the wagon at her fingers, she might even have backed away if she could have.  

"And now I cannot do any more without help.  I am too little to carry the larger pieces."  She touched Anja's dirty hand.  "It would not take long.  Will you please help me finish the wall?"

Anja furrowed her brow, and she seemed ready to shake her head in the negative, but Natasha was patient.  She had long known that simply making her statement and waiting for a response was all it took.  When people wanted to say no, they generally said so immediately.  But if they were even tempted, they would pause.  Anja obviously did not want to do any more that day, much less visit another burnt out shell of what once lived, but Natasha believed she wanted to help.  She always bent for her and Polina because they were little.

At last, Anja gave her a look askance.  "When?"

"We cannot go now."

"Yes.  Mr. Dolina expects us."  Thinking another minute, she said, "We will go at night.  If we are very quiet, no one will notice."

"Really?"

"I go outside a lot by myself," Anja admitted.  Her face became sad, then, as she started them again toward the farm.  "I have time for myself, when I can think...and cry if I want to.  I bother no one when I go alone."

Natasha nodded.  "That is a good idea."

"You do not cry anymore, Natasha? I never see you, even when Mrs. Dolina is at her worst."

"No, I never cry."  Natasha shrugged.  "It helps nothing."

"You sound like Mr. Dolina."

"He taught me that, yes, he is correct.  It does nothing to make me less sad.  Now...  Now, I never cry, and still nothing is changed."

Anja coughed a little laugh.  "You are lucky, then."

"No.  I feel sadness in other ways."

The teenager looked down at her and nodded.  Patting Natasha's shoulder, she gave the wagon a great tug and got it going up the last rise, taking them away from the dark gurgling water.

Natasha looked back and beyond it to the hill, but only for a moment.

They would cross the river soon enough.

* * *

"This next one should come free now.  Get more blocks and start stacking those over there."

Natasha nodded and went wordlessly at the teenager's command around the pile she had finished and back through what once was the front garden.

The moons were reaching their apex when she began to pull blocks from the garden wall to line up around the place they had cursorily planned.  The haze-smeared light cast a yellow-green glow everywhere, and Natasha was filled with relief.  She could at last tell if she was making much progress.  

Still, it was her heart that made the work most difficult.  Each time she pulled a rock loose, she remembered how she had sat upon it whilst her mother dug in the fluffy earth then set a beautiful mound of color within the hole.  She could see her feet kicking, her heels hitting the rocks, until her mother warned her not to scuff her boots too much.

But then Natasha would sigh.  Everything had a memory, a memory she had decided she was terrified to forget, and so she took the sadness and the pain along with the memory that should have been so happy, even while remembering that there was nothing she could do to change it.  How difficult everything was now!  She could not imagine she was doing anything correctly, when once she made almost no mistakes.

Another rock came loose and rolled into her small, sock-covered hands.  Tilting it onto her forearms, she turned and carried the burden to the new pile.  She would not have been able to do that work before Orvo fell, but working on the Dolinas' farm had made her not mind struggling, or getting cuts or bruises.  Mr. Dolina had been teaching them how to breathe through pain, and she knew she had become much better already at it.

 _"The body is but a tool for the soul,"_ he had told them all as they hauled hay in from the field for the barn.  _"It hurts for a reason--pain tells you what you need to know to be careful.  The body usually recovers.  Never let it stop you, but keep moving--always keep moving--and it will get used to what it has got.  The soul does not recover.  Make it strong!  Keep it tight within you , and stay strong._

Natasha was doing just that as she lined up the blocks, one-by-one.  Matviyko would have laughed at her, she knew, for none of the blocks seemed to line up.  He was very good at blocks.  He could design anything without a plan--rather, he would make the plan after building his creation so he would not forget what he had done, for he built so many.  Natasha loved to watch his ideas grow, and sometimes he would help her build something of her own, usually houses or little towns.  He would have helped her there, too, and would probably have taken over everything, his green eyes twinkling with all the ideas he thought might improve the project.  She never liked it when he did that at first, but she always let him in the end.  

He never would again.  She would never see him again.  None of them would be with her again.

Sighing, she lifted the metal onto a prop and tried to get the rectangles straight...

She saw her father's coat.  Just an edge, part of the bottom.  She stared for several long moments, feeling her cold fingers twitch to touch it, to feel him again, to hear...

_"There is my Nataliya!  My pretty one, just like your grandmother!"_

...and to feel his arms, slim and strong, reach around and pluck her from the floor.  What she would do to feel that again, to hear his loving voice...

"Natasha!  Help me to pull this!"

Obediently, she shook away her thoughts and went to put her hands on the other side of the metal sheet Anja had at last extricated.  Though clearly, she had not wanted to help at first, Anja had dug into the extra work Natasha had begged of her with a surprisingly cheerful approach.  The long-limbed fourteen year-old quickly decided what should happen first and what Natasha would be able to do.  Then she went into her own work, chatting, even, at times.  When they began to haul the metal sheet over, she started more of the same.

"Your brother was the smartest in our grade," she began.  "We used to do projects together.  He took care of everything, made certain we were organized, and always with that smile on his face.  The best captain on any of the teams, too."  She laughed a little at that.  "I doubt there was a girl in our class that did not like him.  I think the field stands were crowded because of him."

"He was my prince," Natasha said then puffed a breath in the chill air.  It was difficult to hold onto the metal with the socks on her hands, making her tire twice as quickly as she lifted another block, and her brother's chuckles filled her...

"What is this?!"

Not Matviy.  It was not Matviy!

" _This_ is where you have been!"

Natasha sprang away from the sheet with a cry and ran from the grizzly voice that sounded behind her.  Her heart pounded and she was ready to run all the way back to the Dolinas' when she turned and saw that is _was_ Mr. Dolina.  He stood at the far end of the rubble of her house, his wrinkled face a picture of fury in the sallow moonlight.

"Sorry!  I--"  Tears escaped her now and she trembled in the cold night.  "I came when there was no work!  I came to make this better!"

He shot a glare at Anja, but Natasha jumped in front of her.  

"I made her come.  I begged her to help me."

"Help? Do what?"  He looked at the rocks she had piled up, and then at the sloppy wall she had made with Polina.  Walking over to the cement, reaching down, he looked at the slightly open space, moving around to get a better look in the moonlight.  She knew he could see her father's coat there, as she had.  He was going to know, and they would be punished, and he would stop what they were doing...  

Suddenly, he grabbed the edge of the metal sheets before him.  

"No!  Mr. Dolina!  Please!"

With a yank, he easily uncovered the makeshift tomb, and for the first time, Natasha saw him start with surprise.  Staring hard at the bodies, he turned a slow glare her way.  "What are you doing, Nataliya?"

Natasha stared at him, taking her turn to be surprised.  Not once had he called her by her proper name.  To add to that oddness, he did not know her purpose.  For all his talk about her parents, would he not be the first to understand? 

"I am helping them."

At last, Mr. Dolina came toward Natasha at such a stride that she prepared for a beating.  Mrs. Dolina was the one who did that--often boxing poor little Polina on the ear, or Olek when he argued, but Natasha had no doubt that the gruff old man could beat any of them if he cared to.  He physically handled them enough to make none of them doubt his strength.  But then he looked down at her parents again, and his face melted into...sadness.  

"Helping your dead parents? You help yourself, Natasha."

Her head bent.  "I cannot let them be washed away when the rains come.  I will die with them, in my heart."

He said nothing for almost a minute, letting her whither in the cold hell she had ascended to.  And she readied herself for her punishment, and prepared herself for what she knew he would say, to leave them there and not bother with shells.  She did not budge from her spot.  That, she knew, would displease Mr. Dolina more.

Finally, the old man looked at Anja.  "Go back to the house and rouse Marko--quietly!  You wake the house, and you will be lucky to eat grass for a week!  Tell him to put on his coat and the socks on his hands.  Bring him and the ground pick he was using yesterday.  Then come back here.  You have fifteen minutes.  Go!"

"Yes, sir!" Anja chirped and ran away, probably relieved to not have been beaten for helping.

And Natasha felt her guilt for that, and her anger at being caught.  But she was not sorry.  She would never be sorry for making protection for her parents, when it was for her that they were there.

The wind picked up as she looked at her parents.  They had been beautiful, and now they were rotted corpses, just like those in the villages, sucked free of fullness and joy.  Her mother's hair turned in the wind, and without thinking, she went to her to press it down.  She could not see it fly away.  She could not have any more happen to them.

Her mother's ring glinted in the moonlight.  Natasha coughed.

But she must not...

Mr. Dolina blew a hard breath in the chill air.  "Bah!  Stop that crying, girl!"

"I do not cry!" Natasha shot back, finding her spine at last at his criticism and lack of care for all she cared about--the _only_ thing she cared about.  "I must protect them!  They died for me and Irisha!  Even if you beat me, I will not let them be hurt more!"

"I will not beat you!" he barked back.  "You have more right to come here than anyone!  Why should I beat you for knowing your rights?"  There, he quieted to add, "But you have surprised me, girl.  Not many little ones would be so brave to come home to this.  The clans should burn alive for this alone.  You parents were good and honest, the best people I knew here.  They were killed in cold blood--and in a cold, eternal damnation will their murderers suffer."

Natasha was still recovering, and still not entirely convinced that Mr. Dolina was not angry at her.  Though she had gotten used to his large body and gruff face, his meaty facade had been made no better as their supplies began to decrease sharply with the onset of cold weather.  Not a few times had his big hand come out to bat one of them on the back of the head when they disobeyed--and Marko on his face for speaking out against him.  It had made them all quickly compliant to him and the hotter tempered Mrs. Dolina, and all expectant for their displeasure.

But now he was not angry, though she had disobeyed and snuck out, and had made Anja do the same.  She watched him rather get to a knee and survey the plot, quiet and thoughtful in the cold moonlight.

"You think making a tomb is going to save them somehow?" he asked at length.  She answered with a nod, and he turned his head to give her a long, steady stare, holding her there for almost a minute.  In addition to his quick discipline, Mr. Dolina often preceded it with his stare, and he could figure out someone well after a little time.  The boys had both been caught in lies because of it; Polina _always_ gave in when she was under his scrutiny.  Natasha always felt like she was a bug caught in a jar, tempted to scramble only to hit the clear wall.

Natasha stood still and waited through it, however, thinking about her Aunt Tatyana, who had the same ability.  Hers was a gentler look, always off the corner of her eye and with a small, knowing smile, but the duration was the same.  Natasha could see herself in her white eyelet dress and red boots, standing by her aunt's mahogany grand piano while her father's sister set up spicy tea and cookies on a nearby glass table, looking up from time to time in the soft hazy light of her beautiful white sitting room with the handmade lace on the chair arms, and Natasha always thought about how beautiful Aunt Tatyana was, like a kind, gentle princess, and always so good to her, so quiet and loving of the world...and her.

 _"And what do you imagine now, my dear little Nataliya?"_ she would ask, her dulcet voice like a silken blanket in the air, so soft and warm that one only wanted to embrace it.  _"Where do you imagine us to be today? What have you made of me this time? Tell me, and I will take us there in our music today."_

"This will not help them," Mr. Dolina stated at last, snapping Natasha back to the cold, blackened world in which she now lived.  His face was screwed tight as he looked over her work once more.  "And I should tell my wife what you have been doing up here.  She will want to punish you, despite any rights you own.  You could have brought us a good deal of trouble by venturing out."

She slumped.  "Yes, Mr. Dolina."

"Are you going to accept the punishment?"

"Accept?"

"If she says she will punish you, will you let her?"

"If I broke rules," Natasha said unhappily, "I should be punished."  She knew she meant that, but, drawing a breath, she remembered what else she had meant: "But I will not leave here until I take care of Mama and Tato."

"You will do this no matter what I say?"

"Yes, sir."

"You may not build the wall," he responded, eyeing her, then continuing, "because my wall will be better," Mr. Dolina said.  

Natasha shook her head, at first not understanding what he said.

"The pick will take apart the garden wall faster, and Marko is better at it.  You and Anja will stack the blocks at my direction and in that way we will make a proper tomb.  It will stand up to most weather and will attract no attention from the patrols."

Natasha gaped at him.  "You will do this?"

"I do not lie, girl!" he snapped.  "Now, go do as I say and pull those blocks with me--and watch the sky!  I do not mention those flying devils without need.  The patrols are everywhere, day and night!  You are aware of this.  You know how to look and listen.  You see one, you get under a sheet of metal and stay there until I say.  When we finish here, we will leave this place and you will not return.  You will leave them to their rest.  You hear me, girl?"

"Yes, Mr. Dolina!"

"Start pulling this rock away.  This will not be needed."

"Yes, Mr. Dolina!"

As she did so, she watched him reaching into the circle she had made and touch her mother's hand, and then her father's shoulder.  Natasha furrowed her brow, but she said nothing.  Mr. Dolina's face had returned to its cast of sadness.  "Put the rocks over there," he muttered.  

She did, trying not to look as the older man leaned in to neaten the area around her parents, throwing a stick out, and then some rocks.  He was very quiet for several moments, leaning over them, carefully setting things straight, but then he got back to work, and the determination had returned to him.

"We will do this properly," he told her then took his own turn with the rocks she had dragged over, tossing them with a seeming lack of care out toward the road.  "Those will make this look more random," he explained, "from above."

Anja soon came trudging up the hill with Marko, slouching and cross, behind her.  Mr. Dolina acknowledged him with a wave of his hand.  "You will start taking down the inner rocks on that wall," he told Marko.

The thirteen year-old looked ready to grumble, but looking at what Mr. Dolina was doing, he instead shot a stare at Natasha.

She only looked back.

"Yes, we entomb her parents," Mr. Dolina told him.  "Ask nothing else, and say nothing to the others, but know this little girl owes you her heart.  She will repay you later.  For now, we do this and finish it.  It will take a few days, but we will do this as properly as we can with what we have."

Marko drew back appropriately, though he looked to want to say a good deal.

Natasha saw Anja's smile and returned it.  "Thank you," she told her and bent to pull away another rock.

"So we are making a wall for them?"

Mr. Dolina coughed.  "No, a mausoleum.  We are lucky to have cement under them already; we will build walls and a roof and secure them with metal and sand.  Anja, help Natasha pull away that pile.  Marko--yes, you too, boy!--start tearing down that wall.  Get warm with work!"

* * *

They did as he instructed that night, and then for two afternoons afterward, Mr. Dolina took them out with the wagon and more tools, one eye on the sky and the other on them.  Natasha obediently repaid their immediate efforts by slipping some fresh milk into a separate canister to bring with them, along with portions of her cabbage and egg wraps, which Marko devoured.

"I do not regret doing this for extra food!" he told her, his enthusiasm finding an unusual cheer.

Natasha's lips turned up.  "You sound like Roma," she said.

Marko wiped his milky mouth with the back of his hand.  "I liked him.  Best reader in the group--and his cartoons about the school and the administrations were hilarious.  We passed his cards around and sent them to Gobrech School.  It was like an underground movement..."

There, Marko stopped, and he did not continue.  Natasha did not ask for more.  They all still remembered things that were gone, and stopped talking about them when they remembered they would never return.  Natasha, meanwhile, wished she remembered Roman's cartoons.  She remembered him drawing them, sitting at the dining room table with his board and stylus, and she remembered how bright and colorful they were.  But the details and content had escaped her.

There were many things like that now, and the idea of forgetting them terrified her.

She stood up and got back to work.  Soon, Marko followed.

With Mr. Dolina's help, the big garden pick and a large prying bar, Marko wedged the large, square retaining stones from the interior garden wall and moved them to the front walk.  A tight wall was built there, lined with metal, and then another wall went around that.  That was covered with a few sheets of metal; after a complement of cross-bars, the whole was layered with more rocks above and around.

When it was completed at last, and Anja and Marko were told to return to the farm, Natasha was instructed to stay for some minutes to tell her parents goodbye.

"I will leave you to do it alone," Mr. Dolina added.  "Take what time you need."

He stomped away into the rubble of her house, and she turned to look at the stones.  True to Mr. Dolina's promise, the wall around her parents looked like a real tomb, like the family tombs at Kovalivka.  It was half her height, a rectangle as wide as the walk and a two meters deep, and each block was neatly packed up against the next, three blocks thick.  The top had sheet metal lined with blocks, strengthened with bars and topped with more blocks.  

It was perfect, but even then, she barely knew what to feel as she beheld it.  Indeed, at first, she wondered if there _was_ anything to feel, now.

Then a breeze curled around her and the site, and she closed her eyes.  And she felt it...felt them...inside of her.  She opened her eyes and she could almost see them there, sitting with her on the front walk of the house.  Without thinking to, she knelt and reached out, and the stones became their soft clothes, warm with their life inside...

_"What, Nataliya? What does your heart tell you today?"_

_"Come, Nata, tell Tato and me.  You look so full with your thoughts."_

Their smiles, so warm, so knowing and true, shining into her, filled her even more.  She truly could feel them, and then she knew what she wanted to think, and all she wanted to say.

"Mama...Tato...  I miss you, you and Matviy and Roma, Aunt Tatyana and Uncle Antonin, and Uncle Luka and Aunt Ella, and Iva and Lazlo--all of you.  I think about you every day and every night, and I try to be a good, worthy girl...and always will try to be good, for you..."

The words continued as Mr. Dolina poked around behind her for any remaining scraps from the house.  But she barely heard him after a time.  Dipping her hand into her pocket, she pulled out a slip of paper from her bag, onto which she had written prayers that her mother had taught her.  It was difficult to see in the dim, but she had read it many times after writing it down with her art pencil.  She knew what it said.

"Bless my parents and the people who now care for me.  Help me to respect and obey my elders according to your will.  Help me do my duties, to avoid bad people and their bad ways, and to resist evil.  Help me live a serious, good and holy life...the life Mama and Tato would have wanted me to live...because they are holy.  They died for me and my sister.  Keep them happy in heaven, in peace.  Please let them be there...so I can come to them...someday." 

No words could say enough about how she was thankful for them, and all they had done for her, unto death, and so she only spoke of her gratitude and again prayed with hope to see them all again when she too was dead.  She prayed she could make them happy with her.  She loved them.  She would always, always love them.  She would never, never forget them.

Tears spilled out of her eyes once more, but not for long.  When her words ran out and all she saw was the stone grave, and all she felt was the stiff, cold wind, she suddenly felt it was indeed time to back away and leave.  There was no more to do.  They had retreated again into her heart.  There was nothing left.

She stood, touched the roof of the tomb, and then backed away.

When she turned, she saw Mr. Dolina grabbing pieces they had missed from the rubble.  "I would like to know what you have missed at the other houses!" he scoffed and gestured at the hill.  The southern settlement was on the other side of the next hill and where she had supposed to have been wandering.  "You done? Good!  Go!  There is no more to do here."

"Yes, I know."  With that, Natasha crossed the rubble to get to the path they had taken.  Once more, she looked back, but none of the fear was there now.  Her heart was steady inside her.  It could rain and snow, and the winds could come and she would not be frightened.  They would not be harmed.  With a glance up at the old man beside her, she started them away at last.

"The body is a tool, Natasha," Mr. Dolina told her as they stomped down the hill together, their boots crunching in the brittle, cold grass.  "The soul is forever, and your parents' are well provided for.  But you are little.  You think more with what you can put on your hands, and you need more to let them go.  Making them safe was a good idea.  You are a smart and surprising little girl.  Most would not have been as brave, to look at them dead and know what should be done."

"Thank you, Mr. Dolina, but I will never let them go," Natasha responded.  "You and Mrs. Dolina both said when they were killed that I should be angry.  I am.  I will always be angry that the soldiers took Mama and Tato, and my brothers and the rest of my family away from me, and that they killed everything that was good on our world.  I will never forgive the soldiers for their evil.  Mama would not have liked it, but I think I can still be good when I am angry."

Mr. Dolina hummed then nodded.  "Good!  Keep them, then, and do not let go of your anger until you are ready.  You have earned that right.  But do not sneak away and keep secrets for me to catch you in again.  If you do, I will beat you to the ground."

"Yes, Mr. Dolina."

* * *

It started with the shifts.  With the winter fully set and each of them taking a rest alone, Natasha often found herself unable to sleep as she should have.  Knowing no one else would come, she began to poke through the things that she had unloaded from the wagon.  Her parents' things she left in their bags.  They were airtight and she did not want to upset that.  Her own clothes and her red boots she kept on a shelf on one side of her space.  Irisha's things were with Mrs. Dolina.  

That left the spacesafe boxes.  Three in all, they were locked somehow, and she did not know how to open them.  Her little fingers could easily manipulate the latches, but that alone was not enough to pry into them.  It became a kind of puzzle, a way to stretch her mind, a curious mind once well ahead of her friends, now painfully unoccupied since Orvo fell.  There was, of course, no school, and the Dolinas did not have much to read.  Most of what they did have was Mrs. Dolina's and written in Standard, which she had not learned to read at all and did not want to.  Though most were exposed to the spoken word very early, traditional Settler children started reading Standard in school when they were eight.  Natasha knew how to speak only a little, though she understood more.  

Either way, anything she would have been interested in reading was on the central databank, and they were not connected to it, if it existed at all anymore--and even if the Dolinas would waste the energy to open it at all.

So the box locks became her diversion.  Day after day, rest time after fielding chickens or scavenging the villages as far as five kilometers away, she hurried down to the basement and, in the dim light the windows allowed, she fiddled with the electronic combination, her dirty, cold fingers tapping at the characters that appeared in sequences.  From time to time, she scratched her head or wiped at her nose.  They each had cloths for tissues, but hers were still wet from washing.

She wondered sometimes what else would be taken away from them, and if the soldiers would come back, and what they would do if they did.

A click.

Natasha blinked.  She did not remember what she had done, but the lock had opened on the slim, hard case.  Staring at it for a moment then looking quickly around, she carefully opened the lid.  Moments later, she breathed again.  "Mama..."  She reached inside and picked the first thing she could touch: A card.  Her heart fluttered as it came out and she looked at it.  Her gut pulled.  "Mama..."

Her mother never forgot anything.

Last summer, they had gone to visit her uncle in Kovalivka.  It was Summer there, too, and the grasses bloomed with seed and bounced with birds and insects.  The sky was so clear and blue, Natasha could not stop staring at it.  Earth was so beautiful, and they relished in it for a whole season, until the family decided it was time to go.  Her grandfather and uncle were not happy to have them leave, but her parents had assured them they would return as soon as they could finish their business on Turkana.

Natasha remembered wondering what they had meant by business.  Now, grimly, she understood.  Mr. Dolina had told her they simply had not left again in time.

The day before leaving for the transport back to Turkana, Uncle Nazar had gathered everyone to take pictures.  They recorded everyone together, and then groups of them--her family, uncle's family and grandmother and grandfather, and then friends of her parents and then all together, there in the field, with the grasses blowing and the giant tree off to the side....  Mama had all the pictures put on a card and kept it on the round table by the red chair that Aunt Tatyana preferred to sit in when she came to the house.  Natasha had looked through it often.

Now she held it in her trembling hands.  Her mother's smile, holding a sleeping Irisha, her father's gentle arm around her, Roman, siting cross-legged and plump as a brown bunny, Matvy, tall, slim and blond, standing behind them with his little sister Natasha, who hugged him around the waist...  Her pale, aqua cotton dress was swept up at the side with the breeze, her long, flaxen hair had been braided and tied with wide, puffed bows.  She was smiling.

She did not smile now, but stared for a long time at the faces that, even a month after building the tomb at her house, had never left her dreams...and nightmares.  

"Thank you, Mama," she whispered, her eyes stinging but not wet.  She never cried, now.  But she did draw a long breath and felt her blood stir.  Then she set into the box to see what else was there.  Some of her father's writing cards, diaries, more portrait cards, identification cards, school cards for them all.  Her father's writing, some on paper, some on a tablet.

She had been exhilarated to find her parents in tact, but no greater treasure could have been found on Turkana--and she buried it accordingly--and as soon as she heard steps and the kitchen door slam.

But a smile did manage to turn up her mouth as she did so.

* * *

Within another week, she had managed open the other two and learned the key for the first, so she could lock away the cards and feel safe that they would not be hurt.

She spent all of her time in the basement looking at them, reading her father's poems and stories--though they were much more something Matvy could read, not her.  Whispering the sounds aloud, however, piecing out the words, she slowly began to understand what she was reading, if not all of the meanings.  She threw herself into it, feeling her neglected mind spark with that new information.  Each new page was a new adventure, her Tato's spirit in every line...and she _could_ hear him again, too, in the video card, though she stopped it immediately upon playing it, knowing she could be caught that time.

So she stayed with the portraits and the stories, whispering poems, increasingly lost in the world she could not have in the little time she had for only her....

"Natasha!"

Mr. Dolina's voice boomed down the stairs and his steps soon followed.

Natasha's hands jumped and the card flew out of it, landing somewhere in her blanket.  It was too dark to see where, and portraits were out, and....

"You are not asleep," he said suspiciously.  "What are you doing?"

Natasha scurried to get everything put away.  But the other box was out, too, and she still could not find the card...

"What do you have there?"  Mr. Dolina was behind her now.  "Speak, girl!"

She spun around and stared up at him with pleading eyes.  "Please, Mr. Dolina!  I did not break the rules!  They were Mama's.  She put them in the wagon, and I opened them.  Please do not take them from me!  Please!"

"Shush!" he commanded harshly and sank to a knee to extract the card she had dropped from the blanket.  Glancing down at it, then giving her a look, he handed it to her.  "Put it away, girl."

"Please do not take the boxes," she repeated, quieter with great effort, and screaming at her fear to stay away.  "I promise I have not forgotten my chores."

"Why would I take away what is yours?"  He sighed, a grunt in his big chest.  "Why do you think I would be an enemy, when I have helped you so many times?"

Natasha slumped.  "I do not know."

"Yes you do--and you do well not to trust.  You are a good girl.  Stay that way and I will help you.  --Yes, believe it.  I like you, Natasha.  You have courage those other kids lack.  You know your mind.  --But you do not know how to keep things safe."  Reaching out for another loose card, and grinned when he flicked on a portrait.  It was of her mother in the garden, kneeling by the bed of radishes, her straw hat tied by a scarf under her chin, her gloved hands flat on her knees as she smiled for the portrait.  Natasha's eyes remained on it as long as Mr. Dolina had it open.  "She was a handsome woman--good, sensible woman," he concluded softly.  "She knew her mind, too."  Clicking the card off, he gave that to Natasha, too.  "I saw how they lay up there.  You said it rightly: She and your father died for you and Irisha, so you would live."

"Yes."

"Your courage came from them."  Rising to his heavy boots, Mr. Dolina shuffled into the back of the basement and pulled out an old, battered flat crate.  Bringing it to Natasha's space, he had her move her things from the corner and packed the space boxes inside, then lay her parents' clothing on top.  

"Those are yours, too," he said.  "The way things are now, you will probably wear them before you get to a replicator again."  With that, he closed the crate, nestled it in the corner and resettled Natasha's bedding on top of it.  "You just need to pull the side slot out to open the crate," he instructed.  "And only take one thing at a time out.  Show me."

Natasha nodded, already having learned her lesson for having made a mess of the cards.  Ducking back, she slid the side of the crate open and easily got her hand around the handle of the box inside.  "I can do it."

"Now close it."  She did.  He was satisfied.  "New rules: You look at it only in the morning after the other kids are outside, and you never tell anyone about it, or then I _will_ take it away for your own good.  I want no crying about it and kids asking about their parents' things, yes? When I knock, you put it away and hide it like it sits now--no questions--and come do your work."  

"Yes, sir," Natasha answered breathlessly.  

"You do as I say," he went on, "you will survive.  Now, come upstairs!  I want to teach you how to shoot a phaser."

Her eyes flew open with surprise.  "Shoot?"

"The patrols are bothering me, and the reports from the tunnels comfort me no more."  His gaze rose to an invisible spot on the ceiling, oddly soft in the filtered light.  "They want something, and they will soon come to get it."  Then he looked at her.  The softness was gone.  His eyes were suddenly intense.  She felt it in her gut when he offered, "You want to learn how to use a phaser, Natasha?"

"You want _me_ to shoot a phaser?"

"Would I ask if I did not?"

"I am too little."

"It's nothing to shoot a phaser, girl," he scoffed.  "What you grow into is shooting _well._ "

Natasha finally scooted out of her corner and onto her feet.  "I want to help us if I can."

"Then put on your coat and come into the yard."

Soon after she obeyed him, his large hands were gentle on hers when they slid his old phaser, pulled from a box in a high kitchen cabinet, into her tiny grip.  Kneeling behind her, he set the power to the lowest setting, and then straightened her left arm while positioning her right hand underneath to hold the right steady.

"When you are older, you will be able to do this with one arm," he explained.  "Until then, use both for stability."

"It feels wrong with this arm holding it," she said.

"You will learn to use both hands, but we start with your weak side first, so you always have that.  You never know when you might need to change."

Looking on with crossed arms, Marko and Olek looked at each other then back to her and Mr. Dolina.  "Why does she get to go first?" Olek asked.  "She is still too little to shoot it."

"I let her go first," Mr. Dolina retorted, "because she is not full of stupid complaints!"  He patted Natasha's arms.  "Good!  Now, look down the line of your arm to the end of the weapon.  See the little notch? It is very little, but it is there.  It will shoot straight from there.  _You_ will not shoot straight, the weapon can be trusted to fire where you aim."

"Will I need to shoot someone with it?" Natasha asked, peering back at him.  

"Yes, but do not think about that.  Focus on the now, girl.  _Now_ is all you have--now is all you are able to control.  Yesterday? Tomorrow? You cannot control that.  Control the now.  Now: Think about getting a good line, straight down the arm.  Repeat what I say: Lift, focus, aim, fire."

"Lift, focus, aim, fire."

"Lower the weapon.  Now, say it again!"

"Lift..."  She said, and Mr. Dolina lifted her arms quickly into position.  "Focus."

"That means to look only at what you want to strike."  And he pointed at a nearby oak.  "There: Focus on the knot in the tree."

"Aim."  And he moved her with her arms positioned to look down the length of her arm and the phaser's notch to the knot.

"Fire!"  he barked.

Nothing.  

He furrowed his brow.  "Well? Fire!  --Shoot it!"

Natasha glanced back at him.  "How do I do that?"

Mr. Dolina laughed.

* * *

The trees were bright with tiny leaves, and the stretch of brown across the fields were at last giving way to the same in that otherwise dry early spring.  Birds clamored among the new growth, hungry for worms and bugs.  They probably would not stay long.  Very little that lived stayed near there, now.

Natasha watched this as clumps of her matted hair fell to the ground, and the slight breeze cooled the back of her scalp.  Her eyes fell to the stringy mess.  She could not even remember having her hair cut before, and now it was all going away, like everything else.  She was certain she was uglier than she had ever been, now.

Mrs. Dolina could not be blamed.  She simply could not manage their hair, with scarce heated water and their running low on soap.  She showed a rare sadness when she came out with her kitchen scissors and told them to sit on the stool by the barn, one by one.  Only Anja protested--but she always protested and won that time by promising she would do it herself.  So Marko and Olek were the first to be sheared to the scalp, then Polina, who wept through the procedure, her eyes screwed shut.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Dolina distracted them with her usual warnings.

"Speak Standard if they come here," she pressed as she sliced away at another section of Polina's thick, tangled curls.  "You will stand out when you speak Unified!  Remember that they hate you Settlers.  Look what they did to your people!  If they killed that many, what's a few more to them?"  At last, Polina was trimmed very short all around, with a little fluff on the top.  It looked horrible.  

Finally, Natasha sat and took the cut.  Mrs. Dolina started into the mattes and began again: "You must speak Standard when you go out.  They listen, you know.  They can hear you.  Speak it whenever you scavenge, and if they come here again, which they will."

"I have forgotten how," Natasha protested, "and I knew only a little before."  She looked at Polina, but her friend was still in shock, shaking her head as she looked at the remnants of her pretty curls.

"You will learn again."

"I do not want to speak the soldiers' words," Natasha replied stubbornly.

''Then you will be the first to be caught when I send you to live under Orvo."

"At least there, I will not be told to be like the clans!"

The scissors left her hair.  A moment later, Natasha's head snapped to the side with the force of Mrs. Dolina's great, red hand.  Sucking a breath, Natasha took it, though it hurt a lot on her bare head.  Polina, though, gasped a cry, and brought her shaking hands to her open mouth.

"Show respect, girl!" barked Mrs. Dolina, "else you will be sent there!"

"If Mr. Dolina asks me to," Natasha returned, "then I will go."

Mrs. Dolina grumbled, but otherwise said nothing.  Returning to her work, she sliced away the last of Natasha's locks.

With a push on her back telling her she was finished, Natasha got up and glared at Mrs. Dolina.  "And I will not speak it there, either!” she snapped.  Grabbing Polina's hand, she took them to get their bags and hats.  It was their turn to rake through the rubble at Komar village, where they had found two phasers and a power card that had fixed the comm for the foreseeable future.  Not that they could hear much, just a random scramble of words in Unified and encoded Cadre chatter, but Mr. Dolina was sending them back to Komar with rakes.

“You must never talk to Mrs. Dolina like that!” Polina whispered as they crossed the yard.  “She will beat you terribly!” 

“If she catches me, she can beat me,” Natasha returned.  The old woman could be mean, but she was also very slow, and they all knew by then that Mr. Dolina favored Natasha and protected her.  The boys said it was for spite; Anja said it was because he had liked her parents so much.  Whatever the old man's reasons, Natasha felt no guilt in using that advantage with his wife--though only as needed.  Mr. Dolina was wise to all the tactics that had developed on his dwindling farm, and even had limits for Natasha.

Polina doubled back to the shed for her hat, frightened still, and so she ran behind to get to the door rather than come any closer to Mrs. Dolina than necessary.  Natasha waited patiently for her.  Polina always forgot things, and so it always took twice as long when they did anything together.

Natasha used the time to look at the sky, as she had been taught to do, and to listen for any slight rumbles in the distance.  The ships could zoom up in only a second, and knowing when to dive and make themselves flat against the parched earth was very important.  Mrs. Dolina had even taken some clay and long grass and boiled it with their clothes to dull them as best as she could.  It made them all look like a single tone of something terribly dirty, but it did help them to hide.

Soon, Polina was by her again, pulling on the greenish grey hat and tying it to her small head, lest the wind knock it away.  It might have despite her efforts.  For all Natasha's fear of rains coming to wash her parents away, it had barely done so--enough to wet the ground and bring some life to the returning warmth, but not nearly enough to call it wet.  Mr. Dolina said it was because of the fires, which still had not been completely extinguished in some places.

Turkana was an unusual planet in that it had only one rich and habitable region, a patch in the mid-northern hemisphere that had spread into mountains in the north with some help from the first colonists.  To the south, a great rocky plain stretched out for a few hundred kilometers to the vast ocean.  The other continents were little more than desert and seemingly endless mountain ranges.  There was life there, but nothing a human would like to inhabit, only study.  Natasha remembered seeing the maps at Yevak School, and still had a copy of it in the school bag she had brought in the wagon.

Looking at it again with Anja and Polina at each side of her and the boys looking over their shoulders, they traced the rivers that led from the city and the north mountains, and the plain to the sea.

"I had never been there," Olek said wistfully.  He had lived in a house along the Bissau River and missed water very much.

"Me either," Marko said.  "But my father used to take samples there."

"Uncle Luka used to fish in that bay," Natasha put in, pointing.  She remembered her uncle pointing it out, comparing it to a tulip.  It was easy to remember that way.  In addition to the geologists who came in droves to Turkana to study the tunnels beneath Orvo and its surrounding lands, it was also a beacon for deep sea fishermen like her uncle, who cut the meat but also carved the bones into little sculptures that he sold at his Heights marketplace.  But then, _"All Yaroviys must be artists--they must create things,"_ her mother used to say with a laugh, waving her hand at her husband and his brother as they talked, often quite rapidly, about their latest projects, _"else they would go mad for things to do!"_

Her mother had made things, too, but in solid, practical ways.  Despite her full service replicator (and the many neighbors and friends who had chided her about its presence), she had knitted clothes and crocheted blankets, baked bread and put together baskets to take to the grandmothers and women who had recently given birth.  She had grown gardens of vegetables that went into their soup and herbs that had been tucked into little pillows to make the drawers smell as delicious as the outdoors...

...And her dirty hands rested on their tomb as she had said goodbye, and the dirt blew over the ruined garden...

Natasha got up and walked away from the map.  Without explanation, she walked outside and let the door fall to slam behind her.

It still had not rained.

There was a new trail of smoke in the distance.  As she walked out, she noticed that it was to the west, toward Orvo.

"Probably burning the rest of Barshar," Mr. Dolina said.  He was on his stool, digging into a component on a board on his lap.  He shrugged.  "Nothing left there, anyway, but ductwork we cannot use."

Natasha pulled the other stool to sit down before him.  "What are you doing?"

He handed her a tool and another component.  "Put the wrench tip there," he instructed.

She did.

Her hands were still on the tomb.

"Turn clockwise."

She did.

* * *

"The body is just a shell, a house for the soul.  What happens to it is nothing compared to what can happen to your soul.  The pain your body feels is nothing compared to the agony of a rotting soul, scorched by regret or evil!  That agony follows you to your grave and crawls through you like worms and maggots.  Survive, yes, but protect your soul above all other things.  Even death does not matter if what makes _you_ is still good!"

Natasha blinked as she felt the words sink in.  Mr. Dolina repeated them to them all countless times every day now, some days more urgently than others.  What he picked up on the comm usually dictated what feeling he would put into it.

Several days ago, there had been a rebellion in the tunnels: Settlers were there--some of their people had survived with only what they could carry from their homes and flats, but they had been sequestered to a small space, where hundreds more had died for lack of medical care.  Finally, they rose up against the cadres who had entrapped them, many more had been killed outright.  A surviving leader of the plot called Murenka was terrifyingly punished.  The woman whispering this news named names that at least one of the children remembered--Obrat, Kaskiv, Bariyka, Papariak, Danczakiewicz, Klok--most grownups, but some teenagers, whose mention made Anja gasp with refreshed remorse.  Day after day, their people continued to suffer under the brutal grasp of the new regime.

Mr. Dolina said their people had long suffered such torments, and even near annihilation four hundred years ago.  They survived then, and they would survive again, if only they were determined enough to resist giving their oppressors the satisfaction of victory.

"Now, stare down the line of your arm--line up quickly!  --Fire!"

Natasha yanked up her arm, steadied it with the other, focused, aimed then squeezed the button.  A little ray of red flew from the nose of the band slicer into the tattered cloth Mr. Dolina had hung up for practice times.  Her "shot" left a brown mark near the edge of the cloth.

"You must do better than that when it comes your turn to scavenge the Heights," Mr. Dolina warned her.

Behind her, Olek chucked, inspiring a frown and a glance his way.  "Will you laugh, too," Natasha told him, "when you cannot hit the outer target and your turn to Orvo comes first?"

The boy's face turned hot at that.  "Maybe I will, when they drag you back in pieces!"

"At least I will not have to listen to you anymore," Natasha muttered and walked the circle to reposition herself.  

Mr. Dolina was now training them to turn a circle then fire, since they would never be standing still when they would use the real phasers.  There were only three--Mr. Dolina's sixty year-old piece included--and the other ones did not work well, so they practiced with the few slicers they had recovered from settlement houses.  Mrs. Dolina gladly let them use them, too, calling the tools lazy and wasteful for any actual household use.

Natasha did not agree, having seen her mother work often with them.  But she knew they were better used for practice--and she would need a lot of that before being sent, as Olek had reminded her, to the city.  Mr. Dolina had already sent Marko and Anja to scavenge around Orvo when it looked like nothing more was coming back after scrounging the local settlements for nearly a year.  They knew from the slim information off the comm that most of the population had resettled underground, with Settlers in the less stable but easy to access upper levels.  Mr. Dolina immediately decided that they could learn more if they could speak more with other Settlers there.

So Anja and Marko went, and it seemed they would never return after three days.  Heavy hearted, the other children and Dolinas resolved to simply go on when the two older kids finally hobbled onto the farm carrying a couple of bags and wearing different sweaters and boots.

After the amazement died off and they were all situated around the kitchen table looking through the bags, Anja reported that the people had indeed settled in hovels below the city after being resettled by force by the leading clans, who had soon broken again over territorial squabbles.

"All fourteen levels have settlements that were assigned to them by the cadres when they were ordered from their homes," she told them over glasses of milk and pieces of ration bars that Mrs. Dolina had split into small squares.  Natasha was not impressed by the taste, though it was not terrible.  It looked like a sweet grain bar, but it was much more bland.  For that matter, anything was better than cabbage and onions.  Anja, Polina and Marko ploughed through the whole stack in minutes.  

"Settlement!" Anja scoffed.  "The cadres' word for it--no one else's on the upper levels!  The flats are hovels made from notches in the sides of what used to be the tram tunnels.  The cadres even assigned them bunks and shelves to put in their hovels, but then they locked everyone in there and made it nearly impossible to get out.  After a while, they found ways through the ducts and access tunnels, but only kids and very small adults can get through, and they can be killed doing it."

"Where are our people?" Olek asked.

"The Settlers and Guild are on the first three levels beneath what used to be Targo district, right in the middle of the clan lines above ground, so it's noisy and dirty from the soot.  The others are stacked below, on the developed levels.  It is like the ancient prisoner camps we used to read about in Mr. Nakoneczny’s class.”

Marko shuddered.  

"Yes, they would give us that," Mr. Dolina grunted.  "Are they left alone?"

"They give out bulk items and nutritional nuggets, they say, and search for weapons.  They gave out clothes once, too, but no one wears them: They're all bright yellow, so they can be seen from kilometers away.  After the one uprising, they contained all Settlers and Guild to the top three levels and now treat our people like stupid children, they say.  But usually, the cadres fight for territory, sometimes just to make each other angry.  Then they leave the levels alone until they want something from them.”

"So nothing has changed," Mr. Dolina smirked.  "So who rules there now?"

"No one absolutely," Anja told him.  "The Alliance, Republic and Coalition are still the largest clans, and they run the central networks.  They had united to destroy the people who stood against them, but then began to fight with one another again once they had finished their work.  Because of that, getting through the tunnels is dangerous--though, the smell of the place is as bad as any phaser fighting.  Dead things rot in the recesses, the lavatories are horrible even when they work properly, though they do have clean water."

Polina and Olek grimaced.

"There is something good: All of the clans have saved the Heights between them, which means that anyone who can get there.  Those kids and small adults? They can cross in the tunnels beneath Karsha Street and access the replicator mall at the center of the Heights.  There are six slots, four that work reliably, and Mr. Sereda told us that they are geothermally generated with natural and reclaim supply feeds, so the output is steady."

They all perked up at that.

"What is this 'Heights,' Anja?" Mrs. Dolina asked.  "What kind of place is it?"

"You never went there?" Anja was surprised.

"I never set foot in Orvo," Mrs. Dolina answered, proud of the fact.  "Describe it to me."

"It used to be an open air market and mall on what used to be the west end of the city.  It sits on the entire west cliffside, five kilometers long, and looks out over the west desert.  The shipyards are almost four hundred meters below the cliff and both have been taken over by the Coalition and Alliance."

"I used to love going to the Heights," Marko added.  A sad shadow cast over his face.  "My parents and I went there every Saturday for dinner, and to see a show or go to the shops.  We knew almost everyone in the Kimli stretch on the north side.  It was a beautiful place."

"Everything used to be beautiful," Anja agreed, touching his arm.  "Now only our memories--"

"Shut up!" Mrs. Dolina cut in in Standard.  "I asked for a description, not for useless memories."  Then, in Unified again, she asked, "When can you go back?"

Anja stared at her.  " _If_ I can get into the _city_ again," she responded, "I will have to wait.  There is always fighting around there--clans trying to prevent other clans from getting supplies--or just targeting people who are not their own.  _If_ you can get through the tunnels to cross the city beneath the ground level, you make yourself a target just approaching the place, and more so when you are standing in front of the distributor and waiting for your things to appear.  And because everyone gets their supplies from there, we have to wait for a spot.  Most Settlers have a schedule set up, and so I asked that we be able to come every sixteenth day--though if the fighting is bad, we might get nothing and have to wait again."

Mr. Dolina growled at that, but grudgingly nodded.  "Then we get a schedule of our own.  Anja and Marko, you two go again next time, shore up your path and contacts there.  Then Anja and Olek go.  Then you will take Natasha, and then Polina."

Polina's gaze darted up from the table, and she looked terrified.  Natasha reached under the table and squeezed her hand in agreement.  But she knew better than to protest.  What Mr. Dolina said was what would be.

Anja, however, did not always remember that.  "Natasha and Polina are too young," she stated.  "Kids have to run the tunnels, yes, but Natasha and Polina, even Olek--they have no way to know--"

"And if you and Marko get yourselves killed," he retorted, "where are we going to get these supplies, eh? Think they will do better without you there to teach them? You will go, girl, and you will teach the others how to go where you have been.  No questions!"

Anja frowned and turned her head away.  "Yes sir."

Natasha caught her apologetic stare and nodded her understanding.  But it was more than that.  Very strangely, she thought even then, she wanted to go.  She wanted to see.

A week later, Natasha raised the cutter, focused on the shapes on the board and pushed the button again.  It flew off to the side, missing the board entirely.  She sighed, pushing out the sound of Olek's chuckling again.  Even Mr. Dolina did not expect them to be good, but they needed at least to be able to scare someone if they needed to.  

"Regret nothing," said Mr. Dolina.  "Accept what you have and move on.  Never let defeat stop you."

"Or your oversized boots," Olek clucked.  Natasha had finally given up her tight, torn red boots for an old pair of Mrs. Dolina's work shoes, which flopped on her little feet like a clown's despite her tying them tightly on.

Mr. Dolina told them they would need to learn how to use knives, too, in the event their phasers broke or could be too easily seen in the dark.  But that time, he _did_ say that she and Polina were too young to handle those kinds of things, that their hands were too small.  Maybe when they were eight or nine, like the boys...

"Attention, girl!" Mr. Dolina barked.  "You miss because you have no focus!  Live _now_ , act _now_.  Do not let what is behind or ahead of you slow you.  Now is all you own, girl.  --Lift, focus, aim.  Fire!"

Natasha was snapped back to what she needed to do.  Turning, she raised her arm, found the target and fired, but she missed yet again.  Hearing Olek snort and say something else behind him, she blew a hard breath.  "Now is all I own: Lift, focus, aim, fire," she recited, turned, focused, aimed and fired a burn onto the tip of Olek's nose.  "There!"

The boy sprang away, clapping his nose with his hands.  "Oww!  She hit me!  She hit me!"

"You deserved it!" Mr. Dolina hollered after him.  "Mind yourself and stop heckling your allies.  Save your breath for running from your enemies like a fool!  The girls try as hard as you--and with less complaining!"  He turned back to Natasha.  "As for you..."

When he put out his hand, Natasha dutifully put the cutter in it.  Looking up into his hard, brown eyes, she watched his brow raise.  But she did not flinch.  He had also taught her to always look people in the eyes, both enemies and allies.

Mr. Dolina nodded approvingly.  "You are brave girl," he said.  But a second later, Mr. Dolina's other hand flew out from his side and cracked her across the cheek.  

Flying back at the force of the impact, Natasha stumbled over the porch bench, but she caught herself before she could hit the ground.  Slowly, she straightened again.  Tears popped into her eyes, but they did not fall, either.  She breathed hard, feeling the imprint of the man's huge hand.

"Do not waste power again," he warned.  “Get back to work.” He gestured for Anja to come and take her turn at the target.

Breathing against the searing pain, Natasha stumbled off to the barn, where Polina had already started mucking the cow's stall.  She was giving the cow a fond rub as she came around the front of her when she spotted her friend.  Her eyes drew wide upon seeing the telltale punishment, which probably flashed like a beacon light by then.  It certainly pounded from top to bottom like one.

"What did you do?"  Polina asked.  Natasha told her and Polina broke into a giggle.  "I wish _my_ aim was that good," she said.  Reaching over, she gave her a hug with one arm and a kiss on her good cheek.  "It will not hurt for long.  It never does when I get it, and I get it a lot, you know!"

Natasha's sore mouth turned up.  It was good to hear Polina speak lightly.  It reminded her of good things from the year before.  Good things, when she would arrive at the regular school from the Yevak school after lunch.  Immediately, she would find Polina.  They held hands on the way to Mrs. Magera's class and played on the playground with Alla, Nadya and Karyna most days, and were just starting to be very good at jumping rope.  But after school, it was only Polina and Natasha again, walking from school together until they got to Polina's house, where Mrs. Goncharuk would offer Natasha a biscuit and a cup of cider before Roman would come to escort her home...

The memories hurt her terribly, still, but she embraced every fragment of what she had known despite it, from the portraits she held so dear to the tiniest memories of her life--anything from the time before.  She never spoke about those times with Polina, though.  Natasha had grown bolder as she held on, but her friend had grown quieter.  When others would recall how things had been, Polina would turned away or break into fitful tears, which promised to get her in trouble, which made her cry more.  Natasha only became upset when she felt she might forget.  Otherwise, when the pain was too much, she simply did something else for a while.

Polina was not able to make herself well as readily, causing Natasha and Anja to take turns to divert the girl.  Eventually, Polina stopped trembling--or at least she seemed as well as she could be, particularly when caring for the hens or mucking the cow stalls.  She seemed to be most comfortable with the animals, far more so than anywhere else, and when eating.  The smallest of all of them, Polina had the biggest appetite, and took the longest time to eat--sometimes so long that Mrs. Dolina would grow impatient and take the bowl away.

Natasha did not have the problem of eating slowly.  Rather, hunger alone made her eat quickly then leave to do something else.  The smell of Mrs. Dolina's soups had come to disgust her.  Not at first, but after months of cabbage, onions and turnips, the three things she could grow over the winter without the usual stream of barter from the now-wrecked neighboring farms, had become all but repellent.  There was no bread, salt or honey, and the few apples they could rescue from an orchard had been ruined by worms and pocks.  There were milk and some eggs, which Mrs. Dolina cooked and served like porridge, usually with cabbage, turnips or onions.  Sometimes, she had Polina shake a can of cream to make butter, which likewise went over cabbage, onions or turnips.

She once had liked all of those things; her mother's kapusniak had once been her favorite meal.  Now her senses reeled every time she came into the kitchen and smelled the pall of old roots and bitter greens, and at meals, she forced herself through her bowl after bowl, morning and night, as she watched her little sister happily devour their small store of eggs, caramel onions, sweet cream and buttered beets, reserved for Irisha all but one night each week because she was the baby.  Even after barraging Natasha and Polina with criticisms and orders, Mrs. Dolina spoke softly and sweetly to Irisha, encouraging her in Standard to eat every bite and praising her as though she had saved the world.

Natasha frowned and felt sick inside, but she said nothing.  She cleaned her bowl as quickly as she could and left the table just so she would not have to watch it any longer.  She would go immediately outside and pace the yard, just far enough from the house to not smell the kitchen anymore or hear her sister’s happy laughter.

* * *

"Focus on now, Natasha!" he pressed as he lifted her single arm into the air, straight from her shoulder to her hand.  "Now is all you own!  Not then--and not tomorrow.  Only now!"

"Only now can be controlled; control only now," Natasha replied automatically.  Mr. Dolina had pressed the lessons into them so much that even Olek muttered it in his sleep.  "We can die any moment after now."

"Make _now_ important!"

"Use what I have now!"

"Yes!  Good girl!  Good!"

Turning the circle, she came around the tree and fired the old phaser--just once, for that was all she had been allowed.  But it his its mark: The circle in the metal sheet he had leaned against the tree was scarred from the blast.  She lowered the weapon and nodded.  "I am able go to Orvo now?"

Mr. Dolina nodded slowly, though he did not speak at first.  Pulling himself to his feet, he took the phaser and pocketed it.  "You listen to Anja? You respect her word?"

"Yes."

"You had better...come home, Nataliya."

She stared at him.  Turning, he returned the attention.

"You must come home.  So listen to Anja, and use the good senses your mother gave you."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

The next morning, she was carrying a few slices of cabbage in a bag as a snack when Anja took her up the back road to the city.  Relatively experienced at it now, Anja was silent through most of the trip, until they could just begin to see the jagged black lines on the dusky sky.  

Natasha let out a sigh to see it.  Before the fall, the city had stood like a beautiful, shining sculpture in the greenish blue sky.  Orvo had been like a great brown gem in the distance from her house.  Up close, the buildings looked like rectangular jewels, with the little bits of crystal, so abundant below the city, embedded in the rock and shining in the sun.  Natasha remembered holding her Aunt Tatyana's soft hand, and smelling her sweet perfume, as she showed those little crystals to her.  She liked her home more than anything, but Natasha loved visiting the city and her family there.  It was the most interesting place she knew....

Now the remaining spires were like rotten teeth sticking out from ghoulish gums.  She trembled to think they would be walking from the crumbled spine of the outer settlements into that mouth, imagining the teeth closing in and devouring them.

Before she could pause there too long or become too afraid to go on, Anja pulled Natasha behind the shell of an abandoned hovercart and began to point toward two particularly long spikes in the wreck before them.

"We are going there," she began, "into what used to be the Karsha Street overpass."

"My aunt and uncle lived on Karsha Street," Natasha said.

"The Puszkardas," Anja confirmed with a nod.  "I loved listening to your aunt play.  Sometimes we would go to the cafe across the street just to hear her practice in their flat."

Natasha's eyes turned down with the thought.  Often, she was _inside_ the flat when Aunt Tatyana practiced, staring in awe at the music on the tablet she used to read and write music on...

"Most of the Settlers live just under there," Anja went on, pointing, "in what used to be the tour tram tubes; now they are called levels one and two.  The cadres marked out the space and gave them beds and trunks for their things--believe that!  From whole flats to rooms no bigger than half the Dolinas' basement.  So nice, those people who kill us, to be certain we can sleep at night!"

"Why do they keep our people there?" Natasha asked.

"We are shields for them."

"Shields?"

"The Settlers sit on a dividing line in the city.  The cadres fight around them on the surface and in the Heights."  Sitting back for a moment, Anja rolled her shoulders to stretch them.  "You will meet some of them today.  --Never tell the Dolinas or I will never forgive you, but we always give one of them a little of what we get.  It is how things work.  They tell us where to go, send someone after us to watch behind, and they let us rest there with food and water."

"Then it is right to give them something.  I will say nothing."

"I did not think you would," Anja replied, smiling a little.  Then she went on, "Do not feel bad when the Kitaevs beg you to stay.  Especially because you are little, they will pity you."

"I do _not_ want to stay there and I want no one's pity!"

"Shush!  I did not say you did."

Natasha nodded.  "I forgot.  I will be quiet, now.  But I will not stay, no matter what they say."

"Just thank them and say no.  They will not force you."  Anja pointed out the lights coming from a few spires within the black spikes.  Her rich, olive brown skin was marred with bruises and an open cut, Natasha noticed.  She seemed to have more every time she came back.  "Those are sentry lights," she said, quiet and intense.  "They look for people trying to get in and out of the city."

"Why?"

"Because they want to hold people in where they can control them.  They want no one in the countryside because they fear anyone making themselves strong enough to fight them--especially their more powerful enemies, so both sides have razed the countryside to keep it from being populated."

"That is why they are trying to make us go to Orvo, too?"

"Yes.  Evil people are like that.  They are always scared of losing power."  Anja pointed again at the jagged spires before them.  "Marko and I were lucky not to be caught by the sentries when we did not know what they were.  But now we do--and so do you.  Get hit by one and phasers will follow."  Getting onto her feet, she stayed in a low crouch to add, "There are dead people in these fields.  Do look at them."

"I am not bothered by shells," Natasha replied.

"Yes, but it is not useless to remind you.  Run after me and you will know where to go when you come again.  Always go through this way, between this hovercraft and the dead oak tree, straight through the old street to that little hill and then around to the side of the wrecked building.  See where it fell over the side of the cliff and is sitting against the wall?"

Natasha squinted against the morning glare.  "I think so."

"There is a flap in the metal that goes down to the surface.  --We were lucky with that, too, seeing Anton Sereda go in.  He was the one who brought us down the first time.  You will meet him, too."

That was not the story they had given the Dolinas, Natasha realized.  But then, she had already known that Anja kept many things from the Dolinas.  "Okay."

"See the lights moving back? Do not be fooled!  They jump back suddenly.  But it is a pattern you can learn.  Now, watch them come around--jump--and slowly move.  See? Good!  Now we go!  Come!"

Natasha pulled her dark hat down hard on her head and followed Anja through the remains of the street that led to the black city.  In the corners of her eyes, she did indeed see forms that looked familiar to ones she had seen in her travels around in the villages, and even at her home.  After a few glances, she pinned her eyes on Anja's oversized black coat, which had been purposefully smudged with mud.  It flew up the hill and toward the edge of the blackened teeth, which now Natasha saw were burnt up portions of the tops of the old buildings, fallen and crushing all below it but a few spaces between the rocks and the tunnels they covered.  The jewels were gone, replaced by....

Natasha reeled back as they came to the rubble that marked the edge of the city.  "What is that smell?" she rasped.

"Rot," Anja whispered back as she yanked Natasha close to the stone wall that once lined the edge of the city, and then around it.  "They put their dead outside around that side of the wall because there is nowhere else to bury them.  Cadres do it, too, to keep people away from the outside, though you can smell it in the tunnels.  You get used to it after a while.  Come!  We come inside the wall here...and now we follow the line of the tube station to its utility door.  But there are no stairs, only a sharp slope, and there is little light.  Hold my coat if you have to, and be silent until I tell you."

They followed the edge of the old station wall for over a minute until they came to the before-mentioned door.  It was grey and buckled, crooked on its hinge.  Anja pulled it aside enough for them to slipped inside.  Upon her release, the door swung in and creaked behind them, flashing little rays of light into what seemed an endless black hole.  Anja went straight to it.  Then suddenly they were going down, and then more steeply.  Natasha felt her shoes slip a little but she managed to hang on.  Trying to breathe in a way to lessen the incredible stench was more concerning to her at the moment.  She could taste it and felt for a moment as though she were eating the dead as well.

But then she realized that all the light was gone, and they were still going down...into the dead, to the devils who made it all.

Reaching out blindly, she impulsively sought a handhold, but there was nothing around them, so she just tried to watch the brief, dim flashes of Anja in the flickers from the door, dimmer still until she could see nothing at all.  Her heart began to race, thumping in her chest, and she grabbed Anja's coat.  She felt like she were being pulled into death itself, into the rotten smell and utter pitch.

Polina would never do this well, Natasha knew.  Her gentle friend would need a lot of warning before Mr. Dolina insisted she go, too.

When Natasha was certain they had fallen to the center of the _planet_ , they stopped and started along a flat walk; light appeared on one side, tiny specks that seemed more like markers than any purposeful help.  Following that line for a couple of minutes, Anja then brought Natasha around and ducked close to her ear.  "Where is your phaser?"

"In my inside pocket."

"Do not tell anyone you have one, even if they ask you.  When you come back up, remember the opening is to the left.  There is a handle."

The lights turned and increased in number as they arced upward--but they did not.  The walk was just as flat.  Anja patted around on the wall until she found the opening.  Then she brought Natasha's hand up to feel it.  "Push gently," she told her.

Natasha did, and a door slid aside with seemingly no effort.  Immediately, she blinked at the sudden light--a bright, blue-white light of an interior corridor.  These were tunnel lights that she remembered from her visits here with her school and her parents.  Several times, they had gone on cavern tours to see the beautiful mineral deposits within the mountain.  This was the far end of the tram station.  The tiles were still there, too, she saw, brown and cream and purple, all arranged neatly in gentle swirls leading further into the station.  "It is all still here," she whispered.

"It is all that remains," Anja said sadly.  "Most of the station is just soot, now.  Stay near the wall until we can get into the back corridor.  That is where the people live, in the transport tunnels.  The soldiers can start a fight at any time here, they say, and they do not know or care about anything but that we are not on their side."

Natasha swallowed and got behind Anja, following her moves as they slid down the wall toward a pile of debris, where a ragged opening on the other side of the circle sat nearly concealed.  Reaching it, she almost chose to be hit by phasers outside rather than proceed.  The smell was even worse there.  But Anja grabbed her collar, pulled the door halfway open and pushed her in before she could protest.  

Now they walked down a dimly lit corridor with wide notches in the walls.  "This is One-North-One," Anja told her, "level one, first tunnel at the north.  It runs south from here nearly a kilometer before we come to the center of this level.  All of the tunnels have hovels, but not all of them have people living in them."

Natasha nodded.  Each hovel was about the size of the Dolinas' kitchen and lit with a plain white overhead bar light that washed out the interior to a dreary grey.  As Anja had said, within many of those hovel were people and their few belongings.  Some were arranged well, with seats and shelves, and some looked like only piles of things with adults or kids huddled in the middle.  Others were stuffed with machine junk.  All of the people there, young, old, sitting up, lying down, stared out at them as they passed, but no one asked after them.  Only a few talked with one another, and that in hushed tones.  One whispered a lullaby to her fitful baby, holding it tight and close.  Kids coming up the way moved to the other side of the tram tube to avoid her and Anja.  Natasha looked at them but did not recognize them.  The floor felt sticky beneath her oversized shoes.

Anja ignored it all, moving with increasing speed to a turn, where more huddled people sat in more starkly lit hovels.  At last, they came into a wider hall area, where rays of remaining sunlight broke the ghostly pall behind them.  With a few more steps, they were fully inside the place...a place she could not believe at first.  It seemed to go on forever, the view of the cloudy sky they had recently left through large, long panes of framed glass.  Looking up, Natasha saw heavy bars on both sides and in the middle of the space, far thicker than the support beams that held her house, but similar in appearance.  Slowing to examine that strange ceiling more steadily, she thought looked like the side of a building.  "Was this always on the tube ceiling?"

Anja looked back and grinned at her.  "When the city fell, the side of the building came down on the east access platform and was not destroyed.  After they were forced to stay in this section, the Settlers dug out the rubble so they could have this space.  They call it the atrium.  It is the far east end of the level one settlement."

"They were lucky it did not all come down," Natasha replied.  Groups of people were standing in that great space, milling around in the light or sitting on the sides like the grandmothers once had in Mirneselo.  Except there was no sweet breeze there, and the pretty tile was smeared with something probably unspeakable.  Far above, one guardian of their situation flew high above, circling, waiting.  How terrible, Natasha thought, that that was their only way to be near the outside, and with such a promise always above them.

Anja passed this place by as well, holding onto Natasha and bringing her into another corridor.  "This is One-West-One," she said, "the first tunnel going directly west.  Most of the people we deal with live here."

This tunnel was likewise long, lined with black tile and lit by small, yellowish lights.  It also grew thin, only two meters across, before expanding a little again.  The notches in there were small and mostly stacked with boxes and furniture.  Only a few spaces had people on that row, and Anja acknowledged only one of them with a quick nod before driving them swiftly forward.

After they passed a cross-corridor, Anja began to check the notches one by one.  At last, just past a sharp turn in the tunnel, she stopped in front of one.

Natasha came around her and looked into a side-curtained hovel, inside of which sat two adults at a small, battered metal table.  They were not old at all, as she had expected, nothing like the Dolinas.  Rather, they looked about the age as Aunt Tatyana, and they looked surprised to see her, though Anja had said they were expecting them.  

The woman was naggingly familiar to Natasha, who stared back for a long time, trying to puzzle out where she had known her.  She was thin with wavy brown hair brushed neatly over one shoulder, and wise, steady eyes that were probably brown.  The dim light made it difficult to tell.  Her skin was very light and clean, and her mouth was straight but not unpleasant.  She wore dark clothes with a long, lace shawl tied around her shoulders.  She had what looked like a sweater in her hands--or what used to be a sweater.  She was pulling a string from it and rolling it into a yarn ball.  The man beside her also had brown hair, but it was very short, and his thinly drawn eyes were a striking blue that was impervious to the dim light.  They sat within a strong face and jaw, and his body was long and firm-looking.  Natasha definitely remembered his face: He had been a teacher at her brothers' school.  She looked up at Anja.

"These are the Kitaevs, Natasha," Anja supplied politely then looked at the couple, "Symon and Mariya Kitaev.  Mr. and Mrs. Kitaev, this is one of the girls living with us, Natasha Yaroviy."

"I am glad to see you again, Natasha," said the man kindly, though his expression did not hide his unhappiness.  "Your brother and Anja were both my students.  You came to the Yevak school last year, I remember.  But I met you when your mother and I met about Matviyko.  Mariya--this is Mariya, my wife.  Do you remember her? She and your mother had been friends, and Mariya gave you almonds when we met at the school."

"Yes," Natasha said. She knew his face. She also knew his name. Her cousin on Earth was named Symon, who was two years younger than cousin Klara. She cold see them playing with Matviy, Roman and cousins Iva and Lazlo when they all were at Kovalivka together. She could hear their laughter...and she could feel her own. Natasha's maternal grandparents had brought them all together for a weekend, Yaroviys and Romaniaks alike, and how happy they had been there.... 

_What must they think of us?_ she wondered. 

"Do you remember me, Natasha?" 

She continued to stare, focusing on his features, and she now felt her mother's warm arms around her as she sat on her lap and ate the toasted nuts while the adults talked. They were at the Yevak school building, but on the secondary side where her brothers schooled, and that was what they spoke about, about Matviyko's application to a larger school on Earth when they left Turkana. 

Mr. Kitaev did not have any stubble on his face then, and he had worn a bright blue tunic and a brown, belted coat.  Mrs. Kitaev had taken her seat on the side of the table in a gold dress with a full skirt and her hair pushed back with a long, beautiful scarf that looked like buckets of paint swirled together.  Natasha remembered telling her that she liked the dress and scarf, and Mrs. Kitaev thanked her.  Her mother hugged her close and pressed a kiss to the back of her head.  _"You always have liked gemstone colors, Nata,"_ she had praised then continued talking about Matviyko.

"Yes, I remember it," she said softly, pressing away the memory now for the stabs of hurt in her chest.  She had other things she must do just then.

"Come in, please," Mrs. Kitaev said, setting aside the unraveled sweater and gesturing to what looked like a bed.  Made up with lightly tucked black blankets and lace coverlets at the back, it easily made a sofa, too.  Natasha did not sit but she did move in closer.  "How long have you been with Lev and Elizabeth, Natasha?"

It took her an extra moment to realize she meant the Dolinas.  "Since the day of the fall," she answered.

"The fall? Is that what they call it? Hmm!  It is a good name.  Has it been difficult there?"

"We work hard, but it is good enough to live when the soldiers leave us alone."

"How often do they come?" Mr. Kitaev asked.

"They have come a couple of times," Anja told her.  "They did the census first--"

"They took my name," Natasha interjected.  She was still unhappy about that.  "They took Tato's name from me and said I had some other name."

"They did that to us all," Mrs. Kitaev said.  "We have not liked it, too, but we must use it with them.  They were kind to not force you here when they did, like they had--"

"I do not think he was being kind," Natasha interjected again.  The pain in her heart had grown too hot to remember her manners.  "He was not a nice man.  And I will never call myself what they lied about me."

"If you use the name they give you, they will not bother you as they do the ones who try to argue with them."

Natasha was horrified.  "You let them make you a lie?"

"To get away from them without questions? Of course.  And what should I care what they think? I know who I am, and that is enough.  Those terrible people do not deserve to know me!  Let them believe their lies!"  

"Anja said they want to think they erase us."

"She is correct.  They wanted to change our records for their use."  Collecting herself with a deep breath and pushing down her shoulders, Mrs. Kitaev gave her another look.  "How much Standard do you speak, Natasha?"

"None," Natasha responded, then grudgingly corrected, "A little."

Mr. Kitaev's brow furrowed to hear this.  "Are you learning?"

"I understand it because the Dolinas teach us."

"Ah, good."

"But I will not speak it."

They looked at Anja, who shrugged.  "She will change her mind or she will not."

Mr. Kitaev sighed.  "Natasha, I understand you are angry, but--"

"I wish they were _dead_ ," Natasha asserted.  "I hate them with all my soul."

And now even she wondered why she was being so cross to those kindly people.

But Mrs. Kitaev remained patient despite the concern growing her in face.  "I understand this, too, Natasha; but our neighbors speak Unified--Guild clan, who have done nothing but help us, and in your travels here, if you come across a soldier, you must speak it, or you will never pass them.  Sometimes we must take a little of the poison to manage the disease."

"What does that mean?"

"Do you want the soldiers to stay away from you?"

"Yes."

"To keep them away from you, you must let them think they have gotten what they wanted.  They did not like us, the other clans, and the Coalition, Confederacy and Alliance in particular, because we said things to try to stop them from taking over Turkana.  Your uncle, Antonin Puszkarda, was one of the most powerful voices in the colony council, and spoke out against the clan system to the bitter end.  He was a great, brave man." 

"Now he is dead and those other clans control all the people," Natasha frowned.  To add to the rest of her indignation, she did not like being reminded of her favorite uncle, how tall and strong he had been, with his big voice and eyes that sparkled when he smiled, and how he has been killed like everyone else, burned in the fires to a charred heap...  And would they have to pick around those bodies, too, someday? Did they scavenge there?

"Yes, they are in control, and we as a people must live under them.  To hold on to what little we have, to be who we are, Settlers, Natasha, and certainly to stay alive, we must adapt to what they give us and make it easier to survive."

"Can no one help?"

"The cadres have told us there will be no rescues.  They have been all sent away.  So we must learn to live here.  We hate it, too, but there are other children here, who do not have a farm or get to see the sun except through the corridor skylight or, mercy touch them, if they must go to the Heights.  We must protect them until the clans kill each other off or something else happens to change things here.  You must protect yourself, too, when they come to you again."

"I will hide," Natasha insisted.

Now Mrs. Kitaev came to her, and sitting on the bench next to the table, she took Natasha's dirty hands.  She was warm and so terribly gentle, Natasha jerked away from the touch.  Mrs. Kitaev held up her palms, instead.  "My darling little Nataliya, they will find you."  She offered a smile, but Natasha could tell she was sad.  Traces of tears sat in her tired eyes, and her mouth twitched then finally fell again.  "You have had to be very grown up, I can see.  You have had to care for so much for a little girl.  Living with the Dolinas cannot have been easy after losing--"

"They have kept us safe and give us food, and Mr. Dolina helped me--"  She stopped there, knowing what she had promised not to tell.  "They have been as giving as they can be."

"Yes, of course.  I did not mean to say they have been anything but good.  Of course they have been good to care for you all.  I meant to say that you should not have to live as you have.  None of us should live like this, but we feel we must continue for the children, and for any opportunity to make things better.  We are trapped here, and must remain.  We see this now, and must accept.  But we adults have lived in the sun.  You and children like you have suffered the most--such special children, being robbed of all you could have achieved, and it is terrible.  We must do all we can to protect you all, and that means we must live with lies, and live in this place, and hope that someday, the clans will change and it will be better for us.  Still, I hope you hear what I tell you, and learn to be smarter and stronger than the people who did this to us."

"Excuse me, Mrs. Kitaev," Anja finally broke in, "but the Dolinas expect us before dark, and we have not been to the Heights yet."

Mrs. Kitaev's eyes widened, and she looked almost ready to come from her seat and grab Natasha.  For that reason, Natasha moved closer to Anja.

"You do not plan to take this little girl _there_ ," she breathed.  "No, Anja.  It is bad enough that you must go, but Natasha must stay with us."

"Mr. Dolina wants me to train all of us to be able to come on their own," Anja told her, and finished before any of them could argue.  "There are children here who go there and have only one more year than she does, and she will need to know someday how to do it.  You said that we young people have to be the ones to travel the inner tunnels because we are small and fast.  Natasha is both--and she listens and watches very well.  She is never careless.  So I am taking her now and showing her how to be safe.  We will bring you something, of course."

Mrs. Kitaev had not recovered from her dismay, and she looked to her husband now, almost begging him.  Mr. Kitaev's shining eyes had faded, and he shook his head.  "No, Natasha.  You will stay here.  Yes, you are small enough to get through, but so is Anja.  We will send someone else with her, someone who is a little older and knows the tunnels better."

Natasha felt her heart beat at the offer, but stepped back to stop it.  "No, I will go.  Anja has taught me what to do, and I run very fast."

"I hope that is true," he said softly, "if only to get you home."

"I have no home," she softly responded.  "I have only my family waiting for me when I die."

"We must go together so Natasha knows what to do when she comes here alone, Mr. Kitaev," Anja repeated, and for a moment, Natasha thought she sounded just like Matviyko when he begged their parents to be able to stay out late in the village and play parises squares with his friends.  "If she does not learn, she will be in more danger later.  I will look after her and keep her close.  Nothing she sees here will shock her terribly.  We have seen much worse in the villages; we know how to work around the dead.  I will be there to explain it this time.  Mr. Kitaev, please do not stop us."

Closing his eyes for a moment, he opened them again to glance at a shelf on the other wall.  It had a dark cloth over most of it, but there was a slit in the middle.  "Bring us a supply of infant supplement, and I will have a spotter go with you."

Natasha remembered her mother dumping Irisha's supplement packs into the bag....

"I will.  Thank you, Mr. Kitaev," said Anja and tapped Natasha's shoulder.  Natasha gave them a little nod and followed the teenager out, hearing behind them Mrs. Kitaev admonishing her husband for giving in.

"Unfortunately, Anja is right," he said.  "We all have to know this wretched place if we are to survive."

"So we must teach them to be barbarians? Everything we come from is being destroyed in these children!"

"The Federation has turned Turkana away.  Nikon made certain of that.  We must survive on our own, as our people always have under tyranny, and that includes teaching these children to do the same.  We can teach them both worlds, Mariya.  We must!  Else they will never survive these monsters who cage us."

Their continuing conversation died away at the end of the tunnel.  There, Anja opened a portal and led to a wall ladder.  "We must go down to level two and then down three more levels before we can cross the city beneath."  With that, they jumped off at what Anja told her was level two then crossed a row of smelly hovels and wrecked junctions to get to the next access ladder.  

"What is a spotter?" Natasha asked quietly.

Anja bent down to explain, "Spotters watch out for soldiers and other bad people in the tunnels behind us.  There are many of those around the Heights, but Settlers only have a few."

"You were right that they would try to keep me there."

"The Kitaevs are very good people--he was my favorite teacher, once--but they worry about us, and so they can be protective.  See, a couple of times after they were sent into the tunnels, people tried to fight the clans in control, Settlers included.  Many people were killed--over three hundred Settlers the second time.  That was only a few weeks before Marko and I came the first time.  The soldiers are too powerful, so people like the Kitaevs try to keep as many of us as they can from being killed.  The adults started training the children to defend themselves."

"Like Mr. Dolina has with us," Natasha said thoughtfully.  "But I still do not want to speak like those other people."

"You might want to if you want to move around them."

Again, Natasha remained silent and looked around her as they progressed.  Finding the next ladder, they took it down then jumped off going the other way, west, into a tube barely Anja's height.  Soon, the walls drew in and down more; the light faded.  She thought about Unified and having to learn it as they stooped to their knees, and then she could only hear the mutterings of the white haired man before he raised a phaser to her father.  She never wanted to hear words like his ever again.

The cross-city tunnels were just as Anja had described them: Fetid, dark, tight and wet.  Piles of rubble and rubbish littered the sides.  They crawled into wide junctions that were spotless only to stoop again to slip into a duct and then into a tunnel even more disgusting.  Swallowing her bile, Natasha put her hands down on the slimy surface and propelled herself behind Anja.  They continued through sections like these for what felt like a very long time, though Anja told her that Karsha Street, which had stretched across the middle of the city from the gate to the Heights and which they loosely followed beneath its ruins, was only four kilometers long.  Dips in the tunnels led into sewers, through which they passed to squeeze into a hole and climb into a slightly better lit area.  Another junction, and the climb continued.  Glancing back and then forward again, Natasha wondered if she could ever learn such a strange, meandering path.

In time, she would have to.

As they came to a ledge in the ascent, Anja pulled out her phaser, an old, handled model unlike the soldiers'.  Natasha reached into her pocket to be certain her own was still there, but she did not pull it out, afraid to drop it.  Her heart was beating quickly, but she held her breath so to be silent.

Anja gestured to Natasha to crouch and she did.  Then they were moving up more steeply, now, and then up a slow, thin rope of a tunnel that was more like a playground tube.  At the next junction, Anja pointed left and they went that way.  Again the tiny tunnel opened enough that they could stand, but now it was in a wretched, sopping pit that made Natasha's eyes tear.  The smell was so bad, she wondered if she would rather starve _and_ freeze before going through that horrible place again.

Thankfully, the misery did not last long.  Anja put Natasha in front to lead them into another tunnel that was relatively fresh, but then it rose so quickly that they both had to hang onto grips on the side of the tube to go up without sliding back down and landing in the muck.  Ahead, Natasha saw light, foggy and blueish, calling out to them to rise all the way....

Anja stopped and directed Natasha to wipe her hands on her coat, which she gladly did.  Then Anja took out a kerchief and wiped both of their faces.  "Be careful!" she whispered as she pulled the blackened cloth away.  "Anything can be waiting at the surface.  Tens of drain tubes like this one go to the surface.  Bad people can be at the top, and there are remaining terraces above where soldiers sit.  Be ready to return to the tubes."

Natasha shivered under her hot skin.  "I am frightened, Anja," she whispered back.

The teenager looked back at her.  "I am, too," she said, her eyes suddenly very old, or merely too aware.  "I am always afraid, but I use it, like Mr. Dolina teaches us.  --Come!  We must go!"

"This is where you came to get the supplies?"

"Six times, including today," Anja answered.  "Twice it was bad, but you see I survived."

Natasha nodded.  "Okay.  I will try to be brave."

Anja offered her a little smile and moved on.

Not a minute later, they slipped up onto the surface and, blinking for the sudden light, ducked into a crevice.  From there, Natasha let her eyes adjust then peeked out a little to get her first look at the Heights.

She immediately remembered why it was so named.  Even from the east side of the Heights, the mountainside overlook had a breathtaking view of the desert valley west of the city, the mountains in the far distance to the north and south and a peek of the ocean far, far away.  She knew this view well.

Closer in, on the surface they must know better, was a glossy stone expanse half a kilometer deep.  North and south it stretched around the inside of the crescent farther than she could see.  Around it were columns of brown and gold stone, some rows standing, many collapsed from the buildings behind that had fallen in on and behind them.  Gazing south, Natasha saw not a single building, nor any towers, still erect.  Only a few edges of walls remained in places.  North, too, for what she could see, only piles of stone and metal lay with the exception of an occasional arch that once had lined the Heights.

The mall, however, Natasha remembered.  They had often passed through here when they came to hear Aunt Tatyana play.  The dais was at the other end, near to the cliffside's clear bannister.  Sometimes, Natasha had imagined her aunt and whoever was wither floating in their beautiful music and clothing.  Whenever they came to see them, the boys would run ahead to the fountains to look at the fish, and Natasha squealed with delight to feel her father's strong hands catch her under the arms and lift her onto his shoulders so she could see the world, her world.

That was where she had seen it, from that wonderful height, where the sun shone brightly over the plain beyond the city.  Birds danced and swooped out over the mall and down into the valley, people milled and transports floated above, readying to land at the transport dock nearby.  If matters had been very bad, as the Dolinas said they had been for many years before Orvo fell, no one there showed it, but enjoyed the sunny day and lovely view....

Now the sky was sallow, and no people dared stand in the open.  No doubt the fish were dead.  The people she remembered seeing walking around were either dead or killing the one with whom they once had walked.

Suddenly, she could not believe what her world had become.  How could people have turned so bad? So hateful? How could they take her beautiful world and make it how it now was? Why would anyone want to be like that?

And her anger flittered back up in her heart.  She gritted her teeth.

Anja touched her shoulder, breaking her from her distraction.  The older girl pointed in the direction of a long wall, where within was a large, grey hole.  "Those are the units," Anja whispered, hardly audible even up close to her ear.  "You remember what to get?"

Natasha nodded.  They had gone over her list for the replicator many times.  Anja would work on one of the other ones so they could bring back more things.

"Stay very close to the input so you do not have to speak loudly.  And be quick.  Follow me!"

At that, Anja led them out of their little hiding place.  Column by column, crawling under some and going around others, their tunnel-wetted knees growing gritty with sandy soot, they made their way toward their destination.  Natasha's heart began to beat harder as they neared--excitement, expectation, fear, nervousness, all coiled together behind her watchful eyes.  Who else was out there? she wondered.  Who else waited--and where?

So far, she could hear and see nothing, but then--

Anja's hand swung out and hit her chest.  They suddenly stopped and Anja ducked them to the ground to watch.

A few seconds later, a short, thin person came from the shadows.  Looking around jerkily, he crossed the mall to the replicator and tapped at it.  Whispering at the unit's speaker, his eyes stayed everywhere around him.  As soon as the box appeared in the door, he grabbed it and hurried back to the hold he'd appeared from.

Anja waited for over a minute after he was gone before moving them to stand again.  "Ready?" she whispered.

Natasha's heart raced, but she did not hesitate when Anja gave her a tap on the arm and sent them into the mall, desperate targets, children looking for food and clothing.

That never stopped the soldiers, they had said.  They could be shot or taken, they had said....  

Her feet felt like a blur beneath her, and she hardly knew she had needed to run so far, for she reached the replicator kiosk so quickly.

Natasha turned her eyes down to her hand to read what Mr. Dolina had neatly printed there with ink and made her read back many times.  Remembering their practice, she leaned close to the box and recited: "In sack, color black: Two hundred dose vitamin pack, one standard medical kit, five standard _G-nine_ power cards, one ten-set unisex underwear set size eight blue, one ten-set unisex underwear set size four blue, eight pair thermal socks size small black, two pair children's brown work boots size fourteen, one pair adult brown work boots size twenty-six."

The items appeared in the sack as requested just as Anja got the rations.  They could only order so much at a time--the Kitaevs had warned Anja after her first failure to get all she could think of that it only dispensed eight selections at a time before canceling the request with a loud beep--so they had ordered the most important things only.  Grabbing the handles, she looked at Anja and smiled.

Anja was not as happy.  She suddenly was looking around.  "Go back to the--"

Suddenly, phaser fire rained out of a crevice above and within the wreckage.  Deep in the shadows, there was no way to know where to shoot even if they were good at it.  

A blast smacked into the side of a nearby pillar, spraying tiny shards of marble at them.

"Run!" Anja ordered and took off for the other side of the mall, leaving Natasha behind, holding her bag.

For a moment, Natasha stood frozen, not knowing what to do and terrified of the blasts still coming out from the rubble into more rubble, closer and closer....

"Natasha!  Run!"  

Now the fire was following Anja, now, and maybe she could get into the closer shadow.  So she ran there, darting around a red line of fire with a cry.  Almost tripping on the oversized shoes, and suddenly realizing that the bag was actually quite heavy, she scrambled and got into a crevice.  There, she gasped to try to catch her breath.  

Every centimeter of her body was shaking terribly.

"What's the little girl got there?" came a surly voice from behind her.

She needed no lessons in Standard to know to be doubly terrified of _that_.  She took off again like a shot, clutching her bag for all her life's worth, barely hearing the blasts around her now and ignoring Anja's desperate calls to her from somewhere in the fallen columns.  She didn't know where to go, and the dark was calling.  She just had to get to the end, where she'd come from.

Another shot, and stone blasted to her side, striking her arm.  Natasha gasped but could not cry.  She just had to run....

Without warning, another shot came out from the far end of the columns, angling up from a grouping of stones and passing over Natasha's head.  A strangled yell echoed through the Heights a moment after, and some of the firing stopped.

Natasha ran faster--just to anywhere, she had no idea where, her heart about to pound straight through her chest.

Finally, as she came near to the stones, a teenaged boy jumped out and grabbed her.  "No!  No!  Please!" Natasha screeched.

"Shut up!" he snapped as he jerked her around and shoved his hand over her mouth.  "The Kitaevs sent me.  Your tunnel is there!"  Dragging her around to another row in the half-buried stones, he threw her into the correct crevice, where the black hole they'd come from could be seen.  

Anja got there soon after her, huffing for breath.  "Thank God," she breathed, hugging Natasha impulsively then pushing her into the tunnel.  "Slide down!"

* * *

Many hours later, long after dark, Natasha sat in the corner of the Dolinas' kitchen, still touching the burn in her coat.

_"They will not steal our souls, Nata.  They cannot steal what we will never give them."_

She was sill trembling inside.  Maybe they could steal her courage, instead, for she knew she had none left.

The Dolinas and the other children were digging through the bags they'd brought back from the Heights, praising their work and remarking on the smell they'd brought as well.  They were pleased.  Anja and Polina would go next.

Natasha was terrified for her friend.

"That smell!" Mr. Dolina remarked.  "You brought it back with you again!"

"I cannot help it," Anja insisted.  "It sinks into everything, there."

"You jump in the river when you can, get washed," Mrs. Dolina said, Irisha on her hip and she held up an undershirt to her.  "They're big, but you'll grow into them!" she told Irisha in Standard.

"I like blue!" Irisha chirped back.

"I have never been thankful for underwear!" Olek said.

Natasha closed her eyes, but she jumped back to alertness when her new socks landed next to her.

"Take care of them," Mr. Dolina told her.  "Your sister will need them someday."

"Take care of those underwear," Mrs. Dolina warned Olek.  "Natasha gets them next."

Olek snickered.

Natasha stood, grabbed and took her portion of the clothing then took everything into the basement with the solar hand light the Kitaevs had given her for the entrance tunnel.  Setting everything into a somewhat proper place, she crawled into her blankets and put her head down.

_"Send the girls _now_ , Larisa."_

_"They are almost here, now.  Go, go, now!  I love you, Nataliya.  I will be with you always.  Do not be afraid.  Go!"_

She woke up gasping a few hours later, her heart racing, shivering.  She _was_ afraid.  She _was_ alone.  She was tense with chills.  Her mind could not stop running...always running....

 _"What's the little girl got there?"_ echoed through her again, and she shrank inside.  And the phaser shots, and the other one grabbing her...  _"Shut up!  The Kitaevs sent me!"_ Over and over she lived that single minute, and she could not sleep.  Every time she closed her eyes, she could not ward away the images, she could not replace them....

She reached to her side and felt the cracked surface of her red boots.  She had grown out of them soon after coming to the farm, forcing her to stuff her feet in that winter.  The beloved pair were ruined, but she kept them anyway, neatly tied and set on the shelf on the side of her and Polina's bedding area.  

Looking the other way, she could see in the dim moonlight Polina lying by her but facing the wall, soundly sleeping.  She was sleeping in such a way that Natasha could not get to her spacesafe boxes.  She did not wake her friend or try to move her, though she wanted so desperately to look at her mother and father just then, to see their sweet faces and imagine touching their warm, soft hands.  They would have told her it was all right.  They would have held her warm and soothed her back to sleep.

_"Ah, Nata, look at the beautiful stars, and count them, one by one, and think of all the wonderful places they can be...  Make the dreams you want to see come into your mind, Nata....  Close your eyes now.  You are safe.  I love you...."_

Her eyes stung, but she slinked the feeling away.

They would have gone to the Heights for her; they would never let her be in that danger, just like they had stood in the front yard and died before the soldiers so she could slip away.  But had they been able to come to the Dolinas', too, they would have kept her safe, and she would hardly be afraid.

Natasha dug in the dark and felt the familiar strings of her mother's shawl.  Pulling it out from the pile, she wrapped it around her, hunched up against the back wall and waited away the night.  And she realized how terribly silent it was that night.  No patrols, no fighting and no missiles.  No insects chirping or night creatures replaced them.  Nothing penetrated the dearth.  Only breathing could be heard, soft, buried halfway in covers.  No one moved.

Neither did Natasha.

* * *

She did not move, either, when they all were called out to "report" to the soldiers who came yet again.  It was their third visit since Orvo fell, each time with different men and women, and this time, five.  Not that the change in soldiers made a difference.  The Dolinas remained firm but polite, the boys were silent, Anja remained behind Mrs. Dolina and Natasha and Polina stood on the other side of the boys, holding hands tightly behind them and listening.

"How old are you?" one soldier asked Marko.

"Twelve years," Marko answered quietly in their language.

"Couple more years, you'll be ready to come into the cadre," the soldier said cradling his long weapon in front of him like a baby.  "You'll help us win against the Alliance."

Marko turned his head away.

"What? That's not good enough for you, boy?"

"I want to fight no one," he responded at last.

The soldier snorted.  "You'll probably change your mind when you get to the tunnels."

Marko closed his mouth and turned his head away again.

"Are you finished scaring children?" Mrs. Dolina asked.  "We still keep this farm, sir.  There's a lot to do before dusk."

"It could be easier for you," the other soldier said.  "You wouldn't have to do any of this.  It might look bad from here, but we've made a good life for our people.  It could be a good life for you, too, and for the kids."

"But this is _our_ life, sir," Mrs. Dolina told him.  "We were born to this land.  We can never leave it.  But we do have to work harder now, without assistance.  We ask for nothing, and won't ever bother you.  Please, may we return to taking care of what little we have?"

Natasha looked askance at Mrs. Dolina.  It looked and sounded like the strangest she had ever said, begging a group of young soldiers who had traipsed onto her land to work on her own farm.  But then, she had not been as harsh as she had been in the beginning--or maybe she was getting used to her.  Either way, Mrs. Dolina clearly wanted the men to leave, and would put on any nicety to make it happen.

The first solider motioned to the others to go back to the hovercar they had ridden out in.  Then he came very close to Mrs. Dolina.  "What exactly do you need to do?"

Mrs. Dolina took a step away and gestured toward the field.  "I've got those cabbages to pick, and weeds to pull, wild onions and turnips, there.  All of the seedlings need checking and thinning.  We have no power for our machinery, so we must cut the hay ourselves.  There's also--"

"Enough."  The soldier put the strap of his rifle over his shoulder, hanging his rifle at his side.  Then he looked back at them all.  "The Coalition has claimed the East District.  All remaining stragglers are ordered to relocate to the Orvo underground.  We will not be responsible for your lives when Alliance and Republic attacks move this way."

"We don't ask anyone to be responsible for us, sir," Mr. Dolina put in, firm but still as respectful as he could be.  "And we will not leave our land.  We have all we need here."

"I said, you are to be evacuated, Dolina.  You have what you need at Orvo--starting today."  The soldier and Mr. Dolina shared a long look.  Then the soldier walked around Mrs. Dolina and activated his weapon.  A loud whine filled the summer air as he clicked a few buttons and looked out at the field.

"Oh no, Lanson," said the other soldier, "don't do that.  They'll get the--"

The first soldier lifted his weapon into his hands and fired a wide, white beam into the field....

Polina screamed and threw herself into Natasha's arms.

Within seconds, the entire field was aflame.  Taking a few steps forward, he set the hay field aflame as well, and then turned back to the Dolinas.  As the fire rushed all around and the smoke rose in huge, black and white plumes, scattering bugs and rodents in all directions, the soldier came up close to Mrs. Dolina again.  "Now you've got less to do.  The Coalition expects all those remaining in the East District to evacuate to the levels below Orvo.  You _will_ evacuate, or you'll die."

Mrs. Dolina held perfectly still, staring hard even as tears formed in her eyes.  "Then we will die, sir."

"Serve yourself.  But you've just sealed your kids' coffins."

Natasha held onto Polina still as the man stomped past and jumped into the hovercar.  Activating it, it rose into the air and quickly disappeared.  Then a breeze swept the yard and fanned the flames.  With a whoosh, the trees around the border of the field were aflame.  The flames spread to the river.  Feeling the heat and the death, Natasha trembled too hard to speak.

Anja spoke for her.  "Did we lose it all?"  Her voice was quivering.

Mrs. Dolina spun away, coughing a cry when she answered, "Stupid girl!  Of course we lost it all!  All we could grow!"

Natasha swallowed hard and looked at Mr. Dolina.  "What can we do?"

"We wait for the fire to die," he answered tightly, "and then we see what is left."

The fire did not die for five days.  The earth still hardly recovered from months of drought, flames spread north and west, raging from the hills to Natasha's old house all the way south to the Ardra settlement, taking out the fruit trees that Mr. Dolina had tended that spring, and then reaching into the pine forest on the near side of the destroyed village.  Even well after the fire settled, all that had burned smouldered deep into the dirt, hot and smoking until a rain came and washed everything clean.  Only a plain of black and brown remained, stretching all the way to the hills, tens of kilometers away.

Then ships came overhead and fired lasers into the Mirneselo ruins, setting that alight again.  The glow filled the night sky, now achingly black at night, grey in the day.  The hens roosted with continued terror.  For all those days, they had but a few eggs if any.

Natasha listened from her blankets as Mrs. Dolina wept at the kitchen table.  She never thought Mrs. Dolina could cry, but now she had twice--one time right in front of the soldier.  Things had to be very bad.  Crawling silently closer to hear the conversation upstairs, she soon learned how much.

"The tins? All empty?"  Mr. Dolina demanded, his Standard broken with emotion.  Natasha had finally figured out as they learned the language that Mrs. Dolina was not a Settler, but a traditionalist who had learned to speak the language of the people who settled around her farm.  Mr. Dolina was a Settler, a son of the first generation on Turkana, who left for several years before returning to stay.  He had fought in a long war, he once had said, but then he had returned.

"I found nothing, just a few old ones.  Maybe...  In the Spring maybe they'll take."

"Did you save no seeds this Spring?"

"All I had I put to the field to make more seed!" Mrs. Dolina responded.  "I had already harvested last year when this all started.  I was expecting the new shipment!"  And again she wept, pounding her fist on the table.  "Stupid!  Why was I so stupid not to save but a few?"

"You did nothing wrong, Liza.  We order seed from cooperative for forty years the same way.  We didn't know things would be like this, not even me.  But even if we find seed, this is very bad.  It is too late to plant another store, and the beets are all gone.  Winter is going to be hard."

"I know that!  Those monsters are seeing to it that we will starve!"

Natasha looked at Polina, likewise awake and listening.  Her face was set like a stone.  It had not changed since the soldiers left, and her trembling seemed a permanent condition.

"Get the boxes out and hope we can mate the hens, get some chicks," said Mr. Dolina.  "We'll send the girls to gather grass seed from across the river and have Anja replicate feed at Orvo.  The boys and I will search east, down the other plain to the hills, to see if we can find anything there to plant."  

"I don't remember anything there," Mrs. Dolina stated bitterly.  "Everything is gone.  And they irradiated the whole of the south plateau.  The whole East Province is a wasteland."

"They have not taken everything.  Not yet.  With any luck, we will have a warm winter and we can manage a winter crop of grass, at least."

Shivering as she wrapped her mother's shawl tightly around her, Natasha already knew they had no luck.

* * *

Four months later, she shivered under the shawl, a full set of clothes, her coat and several blankets.  No one else was asleep, though the room was pitch black.  It was too cold for sleep.  In the far corner, Olek coughed and tried to blow his nose under his covers, though it seemed as though he could only blow his chattering teeth.

They had only just come into winter, but there was only a little heat in the house.  They had moved into the parlor for warmth, though it was not much more comfortable than the basement.  They had taken to burning wood to fight the chill, possibly beaconing the soldiers.

"Better that than finding a group of frozen Settlers, already dead!" Mr. Dolina snapped as he shoved wood into an ancient heating device in the corner of the parlor.  "Those bastards know exactly where we are."

There was no other choice, now.  After a summer of reduced activity, according to Mr. Sereda and the Kitaevs (though Natasha could hardly believe that, judging from her visits to Level One since her first venture there), the fighting in Orvo's tunnels was so bad that but a few had been able to access the Heights, not even those living in the tunnels, for two months.  Anja and Marko came back empty handed twice, much to Mrs. Dolina's scorn.  

"You call this a supply?" she snapped.  "This is nothing!"

"Maybe _you_ should go to that stink hole and get food, old lady!" Anja retorted.  Tired and filthy with no hope for a bath, Anja was even less willing to hear complaints.  Moving up to her face, the teenager glowered down at Mrs. Dolina, all but daring her to strike.  "Then _you_ will see for yourself how we tried!  It is not _our_ fault we have no food!"

Mrs. Dolina said nothing, but she stood her ground until Anja become too tired to care about who backed off first.  Natasha waited until Mrs. Dolina had gone back to her bedroom to collect some hot water for Anja to drink.

Soon, the rations were rationed and the supplements were eaten.  Then the cold came and quickly turned to a bitter winter, the first terrible one there in decades, according to Mr. Dolina.  And then the sky finally opened after a year of blight and soaked the barren land in frigid rain.  They now had to take the cow far to the southwest for frozen, sopping grass, if not go and bring it back for her.  Despite all their efforts, she was making much less milk, and the chickens followed suit with laying less than half as they had last year.  Most of the young chickens froze to death, making a few weeks worth of meals in the form of thin soups that Mrs. Dolina stretched as far as she could.

At last, Olek began to sneeze, and then cough, and then his head turned to fire.  Then everyone stayed away from him, because they had nothing to make anyone feel better and they did not dare make themselves sick, too.  The boy miserably remained in his pile of blankets and leftover clothes in the far corner of the parlor and drank the horrible but hot things that Mrs. Dolina told him to drink.  While the others were out collecting wood, Natasha had the unfortunate duty of taking a hot wild onion, grass and egg stew to him.

Coming into the corner, she caught her first good look at him in a few days and felt herself sigh.  His cheeks were very red while the rest of him had paled, and his brown hair was shaggy and wet.  His eyes were bloodshot within a face that had thinned so much since they first met a year ago.  He looked old, not just ten.

Tilting her head, watching him in the odd light that came in from the high window, Natasha thought for a moment that he looked like Roman, with those red cheeks and his fondness for teasing her.  Indeed, Roman had teased her _a lot_ , though he had loved his little sister.  Natasha did not think about it then, but now she knew that he had loved her.  And she had loved him.

So she did not hesitate anymore when she carried the soup across the room and knelt by Olek.  He said nothing at first, eyeing his upcoming meal with understandable suspicion.  Then he looked at Natasha.

"I think this will make you sicker," she said with a shrug.  "But you will not be starving when it kills you."

Olek laughed.  "I do not know which is worse, so I will eat it."  He leaned up and took the bowl.  Humming at the heat on his fingers, he gave her a nod and a kinder look than he ever had before.  "Thank you, Natasha."

She stared at him for a moment, but then her lips flicked up.  "If you want mine, you can have it," she told him.

"No, you need to suffer, too," he joked, but then added, "But I heard Mr. Dolina say you must go into the city and try again to bring rations.  Tomorrow, yes?"

Her face hardened at the reminder.  "Yes."

"With Anja or Marko?"

"Neither.  Polina is coming with me this time."

His brow drew down.  "Polina? Are they crazy? Polina cannot hear a patrol ship without cowering."  Under his breath, he added, "I think Anja and Marko left her at the Kitaevs when they went to the Heights and did not tell the Dolinas."

"You know how it is to argue with them.  I would not say anything, either."

"They still should not send just you two.  I hate Orvo, but I wish I were well so I could go, instead."

She smiled at his offer.  "Mr. Dolina needs Anja and Marko here to drag wood.  I will take care of Polina.  I always do."

"Then you should eat."

She nodded again then left him to his meal as she collected the laundry.  Stuffing it in a bag, she looked around for some other blankets that might have to go outside.  They could only leave them to sit or hang, as they could not wash anything in the river.  It was too cold to dry it.  But they figured at least some of the germs would suffer and the smell could not grow worse.

As she picked up a large towel, she felt her gut shrink at the sound of a hovercar coming close then deactivating.

"What do you want?!" came Mr. Dolina's holler through the cement above.

"Soldiers," she breathed and instinctively looked around for a place to hide.

Olek cringed his way through another draw of soup then said, "They will not take down the house."

She turned and gave him a look.  "How do you know that?"

"They need bigger weapons.  Really, Natasha, there is nothing more for them to do.  They will go away."

As he said it, Polina rushed in and ran into the opposite corner.  She said nothing, but pulled a mass of blankets over herself.

"They saw the smoke from the fire," Natasha said.  "They might tell us not to burn."

"Mr. Dolina will tell _them_ to burn," Olek returned.

The soldiers could not be heard, but Mr. Dolina left no secrets in the field.  "You can try all you like," he shot out.  "We're not going anywhere!  You're going to do whatever you want.  Fine!  You burn our crops, you kill our fields!  You make us starve!  Fine!  But we're never going to be rats living in your hole.  Never!  So get off my land and slither back into your pit where you belong--and don't come back!"

"Sorry you feel like that, Dolina," said the solider, then nothing more.

Natasha was frozen in her place, hugging the laundry bag against her and wishing Mr. Dolina had not said what he had.  She did not want anything to happen to the house or anyone there.  Not again.  What they did last time was horrible enough.

Maybe they _would_ bring the house down next time.  Maybe they would kill _him_.

Natasha peeked out of the window to see two soldiers walking slowly away.  Her knees weakened and she backed off.  She knew she was frightened, even though the soldiers were leaving.

"Why do you yell at them?" she asked Mr. Dolina later that day, as he cut logs and she lay out the linens on the frozen ground.  Stepping on one corner, she put rocks on the edges to keep the wind from blowing the sheets away.  "They could come back and destroy more."

"Do you worry, Natasha? They will need to send far worse to scare me."  Mr. Dolina rested his axe on the ground and took a seat on a log.  "Besides, what the clans do is not up to us, Natasha, and nothing I say affects them.  They will do what they choose and make excuses with our words."

"That is what the Kitaevs say."

"And they are right.  If the soldiers want to come and destroy us, they could, and we would know nothing of it.  In a blink, we all could be gone.  Or maybe they will leave us alone.  That much is out of our hands.  What we _can_ control is here, and here."  He touched his head and then held out his hands as he said this.  "What do you own, Natasha?"

"What is within me, and what is in my hands," Natasha recited as she shook out the last blanket and bristled at the frigid breeze that shot back at her face.

"Yes.  Your soul is all you own.  Always keep it tightly held inside you.  Never give it away.  Never!"

Natasha smiled, though it hurt her cold cheeks.  "And _that_ sounds like Mama and Tato."

"They knew the value of the soul, and you were always ahead of your few years, and learned well.  _You_ understood when others refused.  That is why I have have needed little effort to teach you--and that is why you will survive when others die.  But watch what I do, girl!  I never give the soldiers the satisfaction of cowering before them.  Never give them your fear unless it is to fool them."

"I do not want to pretend."

"Then you will need all your strength to fight.  In the end, they will be satisfied to have been rid of me, but nothing more.  They will know nothing but defiance from me.  They will know I looked them in the eyes and never backed down from them.  --Never give them anything but the same, Natasha!"

Rolling his shoulders, stretching his neck and arms, he went on, "I want you kids to practice shooting again.  You sit too often idle.  I want to teach you how to defend yourself, to get phasers from hands and slip out of knots and holds.  Things will grow worse without those people trespassing, and our best defiance is to make you all ready for their tricks.  Will you learn?"

"Yes.  I want to learn."  Her lips turned up a little to add, "It is good to know _and_ I want to be warmer."

He coughed a little chuckle.  "When you return from the city, we will start.  So be careful, girl!  Come back to us!  Come home, and bring the little one with you."

"I promise, Mr. Dolina."

"Ah, no."  He held up a finger toward her.  "Never promise what you cannot guarantee.  Say you will do your best, but do not promise."

She eyed him.  "I will to do my best...to keep my promise."

Mr. Dolina barked a laugh but scowled to cover it.  "Get back to work, girl!"

* * *

A day later, the adults who regarded them were far less amused.  When she and Polina came into the tunnels and made their way through the now familiar filth leading back to the Kitaevs' hovel, their hosts and a couple of older women who were there welcomed them with horror and pity.  Immediately, they set upon them with bits of ration and touched all over their faces.

Natasha backed away from the attention, frowning.  "We are _well_ ," she insisted, "only cold and wet.  It is raining again."

"The natural heat from the geothermal radiators will warm you quickly," Mr. Kitaev said, putting the ration cubes into their hands.  "Come, little ones, come closer."

"Please stop treating us like sick babies," Natasha responded.  "We are well."

After all, their fellow Settlers were no prettier a sight, the corridors were even dirtier than before and smell of the place still brought tears to her eyes when they came in at the main east tunnel, 1E.  Polina had almost scrambled back into the puddle-mired field when the odor assailed her.  Natasha had practically dragged her into the access door.

The Kitaevs _did_ have some stored provisions, however, and the tunnels were much balmier than the farm was--not hot, but certainly warm enough that Natasha could take off the layers of blankets she had on under her oversized coat.  The adults there, six in all, gaped at her while she did this, folding each blanket neatly on a chair where Mrs. Kitaev said they would be safe.

When she pulled off the bottom layer of clothing, which was just a long-sleeved undershirt and thick leggings, Mrs. Kitaev came up and placed her hand on her arm.  Natasha parried the touch, turning her head down and away.

"What has happened?" Mrs. Kitaev breathed, backing off.  "I know it has been bad here, but..."

"The cadres burnt the farm."

"Yes, Anja told us.  Have you had no food?"

"Very little," Natasha said.  "But we eat.  The winter has been very cold."

"And now the rain will make it colder."

"There is nothing left for it to feed," Natasha told them, "but Mr. Dolina said the rain will stop.  It will grow dry again."

Mr. Sereda, standing by, coughed a grunt and nodded.  "Yeah, Daryna said the same.  She has watched the sky all month saying that."

"The sky?" Polina asked him, looking around at the dim yellow light of that tunnel.  "Where is the sun, here?"

"Light shines into the atrium during much of the day," Natasha told her.  "Remember? In the big window?"

"But everywhere else has only these lights?" Polina went on, staring dolefully up.

Mr. Sereda gave her a nod and a sympathetic grin.  "You need not be sad for us.  We find what is useful and make what we can of it."

Natasha eyed him, suddenly resenting his efforts to comfort her friend.  How could he try to make her feel better about that terrible place? Why was he trying with her? “How many did they kill before you made use of scraps, Mr. Sereda?”

”What a gruesome question you ask!”

"No worse than any of the children here, my love," said Mrs. Sereda as she came in with an armload of unraveled string, giving her husband a peck on the cheek as she passed.  She placed the bundle on the bunk and sat down.  Mrs. Kitaev took the space opposite and the women set into it immediately.  "She only has seen so much less."

"I have seen other things," Natasha asserted, though she did not mention Mirneselo to save Polina's heart.  "No answer will scare me."

"These poor children and the death they know better than toys," Mrs. Kitaev sighed.  Mrs. Sereda nodded.

Natasha was not diverted.  ”I want to know.  How many people were killed after the others in Orvo?”

“Too many," was all Mr. Sereda would say.

"No more of that, Natasha!" Mr. Kitaev said.  "Get close to the heat vent.  You, too, girl.  Get warm before it turns off.”

Mrs. Sereda looked back.  “What is your name, little one?" she asked sweetly.  "I have not met you.  Have you a name?”

Seeing her friend lower her head at the stranger’s attention, Natasha supplied for her, “Her name is Polina."  Then she looked at Mr. Kitaev again.  "Can we go to the Heights?"

"Maybe," he replied.  "There are restrictions."

"What are restrictions?" Polina whispered in her friend's ear as she too pulled off her coat.

Natasha furrowed her brow momentarily then said, "To take away something."

"To prevent you from taking as much as you want," Mrs. Kitaev clarified and continued, "We are permitted no more than three selections from the replicator now."

"But we need so much!" Polina cried.

"So do we all, but it is not for us to decide.  The soldiers control that area.  If they wanted us to starve, they could make it happen."

"Why _do_ they let us live, then?" Natasha demanded.  "When will they kill us and be done with their enemies?"

All the adults stilled at the question, but Natasha felt it was a good one.  It seemed all the clan soldiers liked to do was make them unhappy and tease them.  For what purpose?

"Oh, but you both look so very tired and thin!" said the older woman with steel-colored braids.  "The Dolinas' is too dangerous for you children."

"We are alive, Mrs. Badurak," Natasha countered then looked at the Kitaevs.  "You did not answer me.  Why do the soldiers let us live?"

"Because they need a neutral space," Mr. Kitaev finally answered.  "I cannot speak for the settlements, or what is left of them.  But here, we live above the clan strongholds and between the Heights and docking platforms.  They use us as a barrier for each other."

Natasha nodded.  Anja had said the same.  But the adults explained it better.

"Though Nikon hardly pays mind to that," said Mr. Sereda, who finally came into the space to check a blanket.  Looking, Natasha saw that their baby boy, Danek, was asleep on the Kitaev's bed.

Mr. Kitaev sighed heavily.  "Yes, he is a devil.  He has seen to atrocities that...  We care for the result of his work.  Not all of the Coalition agrees with his methods, but he remains...most effective at keeping us in our place."

"Remember that, Natasha, and you too, Polina!" Mr. Sereda added.  "Stay away from Coalition strongholds as much as you are able.  Never go to the north side of the Heights--never north of the replicators.  And never go near a solider, but especially soldiers with brown and gold arm bands.  They hate us more than any of the others."

"They come to the Dolinas' farm."

"You are lucky to be alive, then."

"Did they destroy the villages?" Natasha asked.  "Marko said they had."

Mr. Sereda nodded.  "Yes.  The settlement razing was their doing, though all the clans had wanted to destroy those settlements.  All the other clans saw us as a threat to their plans.  --Us!  A threat.  I wish we had been!"  With a grunt of resignation, he ended the topic with, "Enough!  Why do I rattle on to little girls?"

"Because I asked you questions," Natasha replied simply.

"And because, Anton, you are all too eager to answer little girls and grandmothers alike."  Mr. Kitaev chuckled and waved off his friend's responsive glance.  "Come sit and eat," he told Natasha and Polina.  "I know you are tired, too."

"I know you are going to ask us to stay," Natasha told him, "but we cannot."

"I know.  I know."  Sighing wearily, he shook his head.  "What this life makes of us all," he muttered.

Reaching over, Mrs. Kitaev handed them each a half of a ration bar.  When Natasha tucked it into her pocket, she nodded and went back to her seat.  "This will fill you."

"We were strong enough to get here.  Mrs. Dolina gave us each a whole egg so we could come to the Heights."

The calm of the room immediately disappeared with that assertion.  "You cannot go to the Heights, just you two little girls," she insisted.  "No!  I will not allow it.  With Anja, yes, but not this little girl--"

"You must let us!" Natasha returned.  "We want to eat, and Olek is sick."

"Others will get sick, too," Polina added softly.

"We need food and medicine," Natasha finished, making her back straight the way Mr. Dolina taught her to, "and to bring it back to the Dolinas.  And we do not need your permission to do it.  We thank you for helping us here, but we do not need to stay and trouble you.  You may have your ration bar back.  But we will obey Mr. Dolina."

Now the adults looked at each other, and a couple of them failed to hold back a grin.  Natasha was less happy about what she had needed to say.  She might have hinted at it, but she knew that even with the morsel she had taken, she was _very_ hungry.  She always seemed to be lately, and she knew they all felt the same back at the farm, where the cow only gave a little milk now, and the surviving chickens, coddled and kept as warm as they could make it, managed but a dozen eggs in the last week.  That was enough to give them a single meal and Irisha three--save that horrible cabbage, the only thing left sealed in the food cellar and doled out so carefully now that all it added was bitterness.  

But that was welcome compared to the pain she woke with and went to sleep with, and thought about all of the time when the little she'd had had already passed through her.  And then there was watching the others grow thin, and she knowing they hurt, too.  So Natasha was keen to get to the replicator and get whatever she could then get out of the tunnels again.

"We _will_ get what we need, or we will not.  But I will not disobey the Dolinas and let us all starve because it is too difficult for _you_ to see us."

"If only we all could be so defiant," Mrs. Kitaev replied dryly.  "Keep the ration, Natasha.  I gave it to you without need for your repayment."

She then gestured at her husband, who in turn stood and called one of the teenagers into the hovel.  Tall and lanky with white-blond hair sheared close to his head, he was about the same age as Matviy had been but far less inclined to smile.  He stared down at them and then at the Kitaevs.  Natasha recognized him from her first trip to the tunnels with Anja: He had been the one to pull her to safety.  He was often standing by when they came to the Kitaevs, too.  She did not greet him.

"Dima, take Natasha to the Heights and you can have our share in return," he told him.  "Polina will stay here and help us stack the supplies, and Natasha and Polina remain with us tonight."

Polina almost argued, but Natasha shook her head.  "No, Polya, you stay," she said.  "You are good at helping; it will be easier with only two, and I am much faster."  With a nod from her friend, she looked at Mr. Kitaev.  "We had already asked Mr. Dolina to stay here until morning.  We will stay and leave early.  --Polya, give Dima your list."

Her friend did just that, and the adults prepared the piles they needed to split.  Having done her part for the moment, Natasha stood aside and felt unusually good to have things happen because of her.  It was almost as good as food, to see people respond to her, even though they did not want to.  To them, she was only a little girl who was forced to do bad things, but they knew she meant what she said--just like Mr. Dolina did, and people listened to him, too.  She knew she understood very little in comparison to the adults there, but she would remember her voice.  She would remember that things could happen by her word if she said it well enough.

Done shortening her list to the few most important items for Dima, who glanced a few times at the list she handed him before pocketing it, Polina sat down and fluffed out her short, dirty curls.  Then she turned to see what she needed to do for the Kitaevs.  Glancing up, she offered her friend a little nod.

Giving her a little smile, Natasha buttoned up her coat and looked at the older boy.  "Can we go now?"

He reached over to turn a scratched but functional chronometer on the Kitaev's table around.  Staring at it for a second, then turning a glance toward Mr. Sereda, he nodded.  "Yeah, it should be okay."

"Then we should go."

The boy shrugged and started them out.

* * *

By that time, Natasha only shook for a little while after hurling herself into the tunnel to escape the Heights, but she still said nothing to anyone about it.  Thankfully, the boy Dima seemed to understand and did not tease or press her.  He simply gave her a look to be certain she stayed near and led them back to the safety of the Kitaevs' hovel, where Mrs. Kitaev offered their share to Dima and handed Natasha cool water and another half of a ration bar.  It was only then that she noticed Polina was not there.

"Aneta Sereda took her to the lavatory to wash," Mrs, Kitaev explained.

Natasha's brow rose.  Polina was sensitive to certain smells.  "Is it still very terrible in there?"

"I think Daryna and Nazar have made it better.  They work on it as parts are found."

"Where do they find them?"

"In the rubble above.  Few are able to cross it, much less bring things back, so it is slow work."

"And dangerous," Mr. Kitaev added.  "Sentries forbid us from going to the surface, so you must never go there yourself."

Natasha nodded.  "I know about the sentries.  They guard around the city, too"  With that, she leaned back and ate the ration.

Soon, Polina returned, looking relatively cheerful and pink with scrubbing.  She even had a pretty scarf over her head to cover her chopped curls.  Mrs. Sereda followed with her toddler boy in a sling hung over her shoulder.  Even in that dank place, she managed to be a pretty lady in her simple way.  By her smile, Natasha could see how much she liked making others that way, too.  Polina had not looked looked pretty, herself, since before she appeared at the Dolinas' farm.

Natasha, scoured with the soot and slime of the tunnels but hungry all the same, only looked down and continued to eat, slowly, as Mr. Dolina had taught them to.

But she still had been noticed.  "Finish your meal and you will come with me next, Natasha," Mrs. Sereda said gently, so sweetly, too, that Natasha could not be bothered to argue.

"I wash myself," she said, however.  "Please make no more work for yourself with me."

"Very well, but I will come with you.  It is unsafe to go alone."

Natasha eyed her.  The mother was lying.  Level One was largely unbothered by cadres unless they decided to inspect things, they said, and only Settlers lived there.  Nevertheless, Natasha still did not argue.  She finished her ration and water then let Mrs. Sereda "escort" her down the length of East-One to North-One and the lavatory.  Pleasant-faced, she stood aside and quietly spoke with with some of the other women there while Natasha scrubbed her arms, head and face with hot water and a soap cake, which she had to admit, if only to herself, felt very good.  Pulling her spare clothing from her bag, she changed into her other outfit and threw the dirty clothes into a deep sink at the end of the row.  Then, with Mrs. Sereda's help, she washed and wrung out the dirt and stench, though she knew the latter would return in little time.  The smell of death was unavoidable.  

Coming out, Natasha noticed for the first time that the entrance to the tunnel from the lavatory was uneven.  Asking after it, Mrs. Sereda scooted her over the haggard chunks of flooring.  "This used to be the public lavatory for the tram station.  When we were brought in here, the men knocked out this wall so we could use it, and when the autocleansers died, they rerouted the plumbing so that the water came into all of the sinks and the large basin at the end.  Daryna Zlenko and Roman Osnik rerouted the lighting and waste incinerators, too, while the others blocked off the old entrance.  Now, only the North-One tunnel can access it."

"That was smart of them, to make it so you did not have to go around."

"It was necessary," Mrs. Sereda quietly replied then hurried them around a bend.  "Many people live on this level and must use it every day, so it must work and be accessible.  Another small lavatory was built on the south tunnel, too, and a third will be made if we can.  Perhaps we should be thankful we eat and drink less, now.  Come, Natasha!  You must sleep soon."

Returning to the Kitaevs' hovel within a few minutes, they hung the clothes on the air handler.

Mrs. Sereda's boy began to stir as they finished, so she gave them a wave and started away to her own hovel, followed by thanks from the Kitaevs for her help.  Happy with the quiet at last, Natasha settled back into her little space on the wall and watched her clothing move in the flow of air, swinging gently in the eerie, artificial light.  

Sitting on the edge of the bed, her back straight but head bent, Mrs. Kitaev sat with a small metal hook, crocheting a fabric with deft fingers.  Natasha remembered her mother and her aunt doing the same, and she remembered listening to Mrs. Kitaev and her mother in the cafe, talking about yarn, and she remembered how delicious and sunny everything had been there, and how contented she had felt...

Her hands twitched for something to do, but she realized there was nowhere to go, there.  Looking over at Polina, she saw her friend had settled herself into a blanket and had fallen asleep.  Natasha sighed and took to watching Mrs. Kitaev work instead.  But she did not ask after it or mention her memory.

After some time, the Kitaevs glanced at the entrance of their hovel at a certain rustle in the tunnel and, with a look at each other, quietly set aside his tinkering and her needlework.  Wordlessly, they rose and walked out, turning in the direction of the atrium.  Natasha followed, turning with them through the old transport tunnel, past other hovels, other people whose lives had been stopped, who likewise had been buried in that place, never free to leave.

Arriving at the open area, they did not go all of the way in, where other Settlers and even some Guild had already gathered, but the Kitaevs stayed near the entrance of One-West-One.  No one beaconed them farther, though many acknowledged their arrival.  With a slip of his arm around his wife, Symon got Mariya in front of him, where he entwined their hands and pulled her to him to press himself against her back, his cheek nuzzling her long, brown curls.

Then it happened: The sun shone through the glass of the wrecked building glass.  All of the sudden they all were lit, the survivors, the haze, the filth and the pale-faced children, some clutching to their mothers in awe of the strange visitor.  All were lit by the old yellow star.

For some, it was the only real light they saw all day.  For others, it was simply the only rays they could feel.  But they all stood, transfixed.

Symon and Mariya remained aside, just within the light, absorbing it, warm and alive, and for that moment, she could see how beautiful they were.  He was tall and strong, and his eyes were blue like the sky had once been.  Her lace shawl had little crystals sewn into it.  They glinted like the light in her steady gaze.  Natasha was too young to imagine at all what the Kitaevs might have been thinking; their expressions told her nothing precisely, even while palpably reflective.  

What was curious to the girl was that they did not look sad.  They did not look angry.  They did not look beaten.  Perhaps they had simply decided not to be any of those things.  They were simply there, in that place, in that moment.  And, yes, they were beautiful--there, for that moment--as the Turkanan star bathed them, lit their eyes and their hearts.  Yes...it lit them inside somehow, though they would say nothing of it.

The rays parried, and the beam turned away from them.  Slowly, it crept from the atrium as the sun continued its descent into the western horizon, far over the edge of the Heights, far away from there.

The Kitaevs turned to the tunnel and returned to their hovel.

The others slowly began to mill and move.

The Kitaevs came to see the sun almost every night, she learned, always the same way.

* * *

Unfortunately, that was the only quiet they enjoyed there, thanks to the aerial patrols.  Flying low overhead, the three-man ships shook the tunnels through most of the night, thrice as loudly as they did at the farm.  Had the Kitaevs not reassured them, Natasha would have been certain that the walls would come down upon them.  Even with the grownups' confidence, Polina trembled so hard that her teeth chattered, and she clung so hard to her bedfellow through the night that Natasha was certain she was bruised.  When the onslaughts were finally over, Polina fell asleep, still trembling but exhausted.  Natasha covered her and saw Mr. Kitaev staring sadly at them.

"She is unwell, isn't she?" he asked.

"She is always frightened," Natasha confirmed.  "She will be better when we go back to the farm."

"She should not come here again."

Natasha nodded.  "That is not something I decide.  If the others cannot come, she must come with me.  But she will be all right.  I take care of her."

"You are too young to take care of yourself, much less another child, Natasha."

"I cannot ignore her when she needs me, and she is more a sister to me than Irisha is now.  I must help her."

Mr. Kitaev was quiet for several seconds, still staring at her in the hazy, night-dimmed lights.  "I understand."

"But you do not like it."

"I do not like anything that our people have had to do here, in this hell imposed upon us.  But I understand, and I am glad we have been strong and have adapted quickly, else we would indeed have been destroyed."  He drew a deep breath then let it out again.  "It has been difficult, watching so many suffer, so many die, for a demented concept of peace."

"Demented?"

"Mad."

Natasha nodded.  "It has been one year, Mr. Dolina said."

"Yes."

"It feels...longer, like it has always been like this--but it also feels like I could wake up tomorrow and be in my bed, and Mama waking me up to go with Matviy and Roma to Yevak school, like it has only just happened, this terrible dream.  But that is not a dream I have."

"What do you dream about, Natasha?"

Her face hardened.  She had not meant to speak about it, and still did not want to.  But her blood rose before she could stop her words.  "I dream of the terrible things that happened.  I never forget--and I will never forget what was lost, and will never return."

Mr. Kitaev sighed again; then, rising, he reached out for a blanket and leaned across to lay it upon Natasha.  "Nor will I, Nataliya Ilyivna.  Nor will I.  Now, rest as much as you can, while it remains quiet, and try not for those dreams, but perhaps for quiet.  You have a journey in the morning."  He gazed down at her.  "I will send someone to take you, however.  You care for a great deal, but you are still very young children.  We all are upset by Lev's insistence to send you little ones alone, and Mariya is very unhappy that you have been to the Heights at all, much less traveling alone.  There are many adults and older teenagers who will help you if--"

"It is too dangerous," Natasha cut in.  "We are small, yes, but we are fast and can avoid the sentries better than any adult here."

Mr. Kitaev's attention did not waver for many seconds, but at last, his lips turned up in acquiescence.  "You children make us very proud, Natasha, proud to be Settlers.  We are amazed by what you have been able to do, even as we regret it."

"Never regret what has to be.  Regret rots the soul.  Be thankful for what can be done, as you said before.  There is more use in that."

"You sound just like Lev Dolina."

"He has taught me to survive with those words," Natasha replied proudly.

"So he has."  Mr. Kitaev pulled the blanket up more snugly around her.  "So he has.  Now, sleep, so you can continue to show how well you listen.  I will watch the tunnel.  You are safe."  She gave him a look and he chuckled.  "Yes, Nataliya, you are as safe any anyone can be here.  Sleep.  I will be watching."

Natasha was asleep seconds later.

* * *

An hour before daybreak, Natasha was woken from the floor of the hovel with a quiet, "Good morning, girls."  Looking up from Polina's side, Natasha blinked to see Mrs. Kitaev's heavy gaze above a small, pretty smile.  "It is two hours to dawn," she whispered.  "Please be quiet.  Most people here wake well past dawn."

"We are always quiet," Natasha replied and shook Polina.

Roused and dressed, Mr. Kitaev gave them a half ration each and some drinking water.  Like yesterday's allotment, it was warm but flavorless, unlike the water from the well or the stream.  They ate slowly, glancing at each other.

"Mr. Dolina would say we must make this last all day," Polina smiled.  She was still fresh from her bath, and the kerchief was still fastened around her head.

"We might need to," Natasha reminded her.  "Eat slowly!  Remember what he said about making food last in the stomach, and keeping our stomach small."

Polina sighed.  "Yes.  I remember."

Natasha watched her eyes turn down and relented.  "Maybe there will be a couple of apples left on the old Marycz's tree.  We can walk back that way."

Polina was cheered a little by that idea, it seemed, despite the reminder of the past.  But Natasha knew her friend would tolerate any distress for the hope of fresh food.

After the meal, they were each given a pat of hard soap and sent to wash and go to the bathroom, which unfortunately, had tripled in stench since just the night before, and so much so that Natasha had to drag Polina in the rest of the way.  

A woman was already there, dressed in a maintenance jumpsuit and tightly tied kerchief, halfway into a panel on a wall with a work basket at her side.  Hearing the girls--and probably Polina's groaning--the woman looked back.  "I heard you were back," she said, her voice surprisingly soprano and sweet for her roughened appearance.  "Who's this with Nataliya Ilyivna?"

"Polina Goncharuk," Natasha answered.

"I worked with your father!  Right here on this level, in fact!" the woman declared, unwittingly sending Polina into tears, which she buried in Natasha shoulder.  The woman started at the change.  "Have I said a terrible thing?"

"She does not like remembering," Natasha told her.

"I see.  Poor little thing."  Otherwise unaffected, the woman went back to work.  "You can use the toilets, but they're filthy now.  The Coalition shuts off power from their control zones from time to time.  This time they shut down the waste management.  We have no idea why.  They are assholes to make us beg to get it back.  Until they decide to grant us an allotment and otherwise let the devil play in our yard, I am rerouting.  But the fix will take some time, so go ahead and use the toilets."

Natasha first considered holding it until they were outside, but then she remembered what kind of running they had to do.  "It will only be a moment," she consoled her friend, "and then we will wash and leave this place."

Polina nodded.  "But the smell is so horrible."

"No worse than the barn when Olek forgets to change out the hay on a hot day," Natasha told her.

"Yes, it is."

Natasha conceded.  "It will only be a moment," she repeated and pried Polina away so she could do what she needed to do.

Washing with tepid water directly afterward made up for the unpleasantness.  Even more than the night before, Natasha enjoyed feeling the grime slide away from her skin.  

"Do you need help?" asked the woman, still on the other side of the lavatory.

"No," Natasha told her, then added in afterthought, "but thank you for offering."  She smiled a little for remembering her manners.  They were not terribly required at the farm, but she had wanted to keep them, that one other speck of the life she had loved.

She found Polina grinning as she emerged from the water.  "You look much more like yourself," she said.

Looking at the water again, Natasha splashed some water on her short hair and rubbed the soap on it.  She ended up not doing a very good job, but it felt wonderful to get rid of the itchiness.  It was worth the disgusting smell of the room.  It took little to convince Polina to do the same for a second time.  Natasha scrubbed her head for her then rubbed it with the towel they had been given.  Her light blonde hair soon curled against her head and shone in the dim ceiling lights.

Coming out, they made their way through North-One to the outer corridor, called One-East-One, which snaked along the middle-west side of the level, connecting four tunnels.  The tunnels, once massive ventilation ducts, were set up like a sloppy spider web.  Once evenly sprawled from the northeast ground entrance, the same destruction that had created the atrium also crushed a number of passages about five hundred meters beyond the first ring of the "web," which in turn unofficially designated the end of the settlements on both levels one and two.  The Kitaevs lived six hundred meters down West-One, two hundred meters west of East-One

Natasha and Polina made good time along this tunnel, steady without looking into the various hovels, though some might have caught either girl's interest.  People had begun to settle in, collecting some things and getting rid of others, making partitions for privacy--though walls and doors, they had heard, were not permitted by the cadres.

Crossing the North-Two corridor, Natasha glanced over to check the path and saw a face come out of the grey light of a corner hovel.  At first, she backed off, guiding Polina behind her before even thinking to, but then she stopped.  There was nowhere to go but that way.

 _"Sometimes you must go through your enemy--so go straight through,"_ Mr. Dolina had told them once.  Natasha stepped forward.  "Who are you?" she asked.

"I am not the devil!" sang out a woman's voice.  "And you? Natasha Yaroviy? Yes? I heard you had started coming here."

Natasha almost hurried, but Polina had already stopped, blocking the way.  Looking back at the woman, she saw a typically thin lady with blonde hair.  Behind her boasted a small hovel with the kind of bunk and workspace most of the people had been given on one wall of the space; the rest of the hovel was filled with haphazard shelves.  Those were filled with bins of parts--mechanical junk, metal pieces, glass tubes and tablets.  None of them probably worked, as they were stacked sloppily in the clear bins.

Looking at the lady again, she squinted and repeated, "Who are you?"

"Do you remember me? I taught you at the middle school.  Remember? The lessons you took with the older kids?"

Natasha's eyes widened.  "You are not Mrs. Angielski, but...  Are you Mrs. Zlenko?

"Yes!  I knew you would remember!  I never saw you forget anything you saw, those eyes like a hawk's!"  The lady walked out of her hovel now and got down on a knee to look at Natasha.  She was a tall woman, but no longer round-faced.  As a result, she looked much older.  Her wavy hair was cut short, much like Natasha's, and her skin was lighter.  "You must come and visit me when you can," she continued.  "I will give you more lessons--teach you even better things for the tunnels, too."

"I do not live here," Natasha told her.  "We have to go--"

"I know where you live.  But you are not there always.  When they send you little ones here, come by and I will give you things to take back to the Dolinas' to work on.  In fact...  Yes, this!"  She hurried back into her space and snatched a small bag from a wall hook.  Into it, she shoved a few pieces of metal and a shiny plate.  "Transponder parts and a solar cell.  Show those to Lev Dolina and he will show you what to do with them.  That old hawk will love to know I sent it, too, so tell him!  Tell him I send it with regards, and you will make him laugh.  He might even get it working--at least enough to hear some transmissions--and maybe we will talk to you at his farm if we get them synched."

Bringing the bag back to Natasha, she bent and kissed her cheeks.  "Go, now, but come back!  I want to see you again.  Promise me."

"I will come back," Natasha said, clutching the precious parts to her chest.  Mr. Dolina would be very happy to have a working transponder again.

Returning to the Kitaevs, they bundled up their few supplies and secured their bags.  Before they could lift them, though, Mr. Kitaev came to them with two thick coats.  Natasha's mouth opened at the sight and she shook her head.

"Take them!  You two will need them far more than anyone here.  Put them on--and take what else you can!  Send Anja back for more winter gear."

Knowing what awaited them outside, the girls gladly took them with genuine thanks.

The Kitaevs walked them through the corridors to the access hall.  There, they sent Gregor Kalin to get them to the surface tunnel.  The wide-shouldered young man looked startled when he first saw them, but like most of the young people there, he asked no questions despite looking like he had many.

Mr. Kitaev knelt when they came to the turn into 1W1, waving Polina and Gregor to continue.  "You should not come here alone," he told Natasha.  "You are both too young.  Next time, be certain that Anja brings you."

"We did not do badly," Natasha said.  In fact, the trip there had been easier than others.  

"Please, Natasha," Mr. Kitaev softly replied, "trust that I know what I am talking about.  Have Anja bring you...  And Polina should stay at the farm and keep helping the Dolinas.  She is an excellent helper, and the tunnels...are not good for her.  She is too sensitive to be here."

Now, Natasha understood.  As much as she wanted to be a help and be useful, and as much as she feared Mrs. Dolina, Polina _was_ better off at the house or working in the barn--not running the east field for her life or bearing with the smells of Level One.

"I will tell Mr. Dolina what you have said," Natasha said then bowed her head politely.  "Thank you, Mr. Kitaev.  Goodbye."

Two hours later, as they traversed the frozen countryside, Polina heard about Mr. Dolina's plan to train Natasha with real phasers and was glad for it.  "I wonder if Mr. Dolina will teach me," she then said.  "He hardly even speaks to me except to tell me to go back to my folding and picking."

"I think we _all_ would rather fold and pick, if we had enough to eat."  Natasha looked over at her.  "But I think you are much better now than at Orvo.  Mr. Dolina should have no need to bother you about coming if the Kitaevs will not allow you to go to the Heights." 

"I like them," Polina said, "and Mrs. Sereda was so good to me, but I do not like the tunnels, Natasha.  I always think the walls will eat me."

"I will make him want to send one of the others with me."

Polina grimaced.  "Mr. Dolina will say bad things about me."

Natasha sighed.  Polina was the weakest of them.  Even she knew she was.  Marko said that was why the Dolinas criticized her so much, and they all had protected her and did her work when she could not to prevent the Dolinas from punishing her.  "If I thought they would listen, I would tell them they should be kinder to you."

"He tries to make us brave, but I am frightened, Natasha, even though I am better at not crying."

"Yes," Natasha replied sadly.  "I think we are all much tougher now."

"We need to be--but I will never be enough."

"It does not mean that Mr. Dolina must always speak harshly to you.  He should--"  There, Natasha cut off, hearing a buzz in the sky.  In the summer, it could be a bug, but in the frozen wasteland, it could not be.  "It is close."

"Hide!" Polina cried out.

"Be quiet!" Natasha responded, even as her eyes darted for a place to go.

Caught in the dawn-lit field a kilometer from the city, they both spotted a wretched tree, but it was too far.  So instead, they threw themselves on top of their bags on the frozen dirt, purposefully sloppy in their positions.  Mr. Dolina told them to do this when the patrols became more common, and made them practice how to look as though they had been shot down.  To this purpose, Natasha kept her mouth and eyes wide open, as though she were shocked to be dead, but also so she could see the oncoming ship.  Slowly, the ship loomed over them, pausing, turning, pausing again.  She forced herself to keep her eyes pointed ahead of her and hoped they would not scan them.  If they found they were alive, they would land, Mr. Dolina warned them.

For almost a minute, she did not breathe....

The patrol turned again, angled itself forward and headed slowly away.

After several more seconds, Natasha looked up.  "They are heading for the South Province--what is left of it," she said, watching their direction as she wiped frost-rotted grass from the side of her mouth.  The patrol paused again, turned, floated, and then continued once more toward the blast-wasted hills that once had been a string of beautiful farms.  Their pattern did not look right, though, she thought.  But as Mr. Dolina always reminded her, if there was trouble to be worried about, it would come to her soon enough.

Polina came to Natasha's side.  "Where are they going?"

Natasha shook her head.  "They are looking for something...not at Ardra.  They are moving east.  Come, we should not be seen."

They continued, then, cutting around on the forest's edge so they would have some shelter if more patrols came by, talking about target practice and rations and, as always, what the Dolinas wanted to do.

They were coming close to her house, Natasha knew, she purposefully made them cross behind the woods so they could follow the stream.  As they started down the hill, she and Polina ducked to see two more patrols in the distance heading toward the mountains, circling around and back again.  Those were going very quickly, with a purpose.

"Hurry," Natasha whispered, though she was certain no one was near them.  "I do not feel safe."

"Why?"

"They act like they did the day Orvo burned.  They were moving quickly that day, too."

Polina shook her head.  "They looked like they were going _away_."

Natasha said no more.  Maybe Polina was right, but Natasha understood that her anxiety had purpose.  It rose for a good reason--like when soldiers were close.  Mr. Dolina told her it was a signal to focus and be careful, and so she did.

They passed over the last hill and rejoined the river, where it widened and flattened.  About three meters wide there, the surface was mostly ice, but the steady water had kept a little of it loose.  Looking up the hill, she recognized some of the trees and nodded to herself.  They would soon be at the bottom of her house's back hill.  They had come around a very long way, and likely, they would be in trouble for being late.  But Natasha liked feeling safe more than she liked being on time.

Looking ahead, Natasha spotted something like a bowl or a ball on the side of the river.  Speeding up a little, she jogged to the object and gave it a kick.

She gasped.  The thing flew over and revealed a round doll.  "Tosha!" she breathed and bent to pick it up.  Her heart leaped with excitement, and she found herself smiling without thinking.  "She was not destroyed!  Polina!  Do you remember her?"

"No," Polina replied blandly, her eyes turning away to the river.

"How can't you? We played with her all of the--"  At that, Natasha silenced.  Her burst of excitement had made her speak without thinking.  "Sorry."

Looking down at the stained plastoid and matted hair, Natasha knew that it wasn't the only thing there that was unhappy.  "You have lived as hard as we have," she said softly, feeling sorry for the little thing even though she knew it wasn't real.  Before, she had treated Tosha like she was alive.  She slept close to her and had parties with her.  Polina brought her favorite doll, Mashika, and they ate little cakes and ran from the boys when they invaded the yard....

Natasha put the doll in her bag and started them off again.  Indeed, it was only a toy, and she knew she shouldn't be bringing junk back to the house.  Mrs. Dolina complained about that a lot, how her beautiful farm was destroyed enough without garbage piling up around the house.  Natasha had to agree with her, there.  Even in the summer, the farm looked nothing like it had.  Now, it was black and grey with spires of burnt trees and patches of weeds under sheets of filthy ice.

But she could not bring herself to leave the doll there, either.  How she had wanted it in the beginning, when she had felt so painfully alone and knew Tosha was out there somewhere!  Thankfully, she had Polina to hold onto at night, but she had always wondered where it had gone.  So now she was not letting it get away from her again.  She could take it down before the Dolinas noticed.  And they probably would not notice as long as they counted rations and medicine.  She could put it in the back of her bedding area.  She was the only one to go back there.  

It _was_ good to know Tosha had not burned up with the rest, bad as she looked.  But then, she fit in as she was.

The familiar rows of trees could at last be seen, tall, bare spires heralding an expansive grey field, long picked clean by the cow and bad weather.  The wind picked up as they neared it, too, a great sweep made worse after the settlements were razed and the orchards were destroyed.  Natasha huddled her collar close to her neck and shivered.  

"The power card will be good," Polina commented.

Natasha sighed at the promise.  "Real heat and cooking, and no going out to get the wood!"

"Spring will be nice," Polina said, dreamily looking up at the grey sky.

"Yes," Natasha agreed.  "Maybe with warmth and Mrs. Dolina's few seeds, we will not have to get so much ration from Orvo."

"It _is_ terrible there.  I like the warmth and the hot water in the sink, and Mrs. Sereda, but the rest I did not like."

"The Kitaevs are kind, too, and I liked to see Mrs. Zlenko, but I like the farm more.  And with heat, it will--"

Her words cut off as the scream of an aerial patrol blasted overhead on a direct course for the house.  The girls jumped against a tree just as phaser fire tore from the front of the craft.  It smacked hard into the ground, blowing up a mountain of frozen dirt.

"Oh no!" Polina screamed as she stumbled to her feet and ran toward the house.

"Polina!" Natasha yelled and set after her friend.

Another shot ripped from the front of the ship and struck somewhere past the flying debris.  Screams and fire crashed through the air and suddenly extinguished in the cloud of black dust, and then the craft banked hard and took off into the sky, back toward the city.

Natasha doubled her pace at that, catching up with Polina and then passing her when she heard Mr. Dolina yelling and Anja crying.  Tearing into the dust cloud, Natasha pulled her scarf over her face and slowed enough to grab Polina's hand.  "I hear Mr. Dolina!"

"The house!  The house is gone!" Polina cried.

Coming to the field and into the cloud of dust, they suddenly fell.  Landing in a hot pit of dirt, Natasha jumped up as soon as she could and jumped away from the cinders.  In a blink, she realized that it was the hole made by the ship; with a glance, she saw that dirt was still sliding back in on one side.  Then she heard her friend and turned.

"Are you hurt?" she asked Polina as she pulled her to her feet.  But the smaller girl threw her hand away.

"Get me out!" she screamed, running to the closest edge to claw her way up the side of the hole.  "Get me out!  I will die in here!" she wailed, slapping at the walls uncontrollably.  The dirt began to slide down, more with every strike.  Cakes of mud formed where tears were coming from her eyes.

Natasha got to her side and yanked her over to a sloped edge.  "Come, Polina!  Over here!"

Polina got in front of her and started up, but she moved so quickly that the loose dirt began to slide down, taking them both with it.  Natasha grabbed her hand again.  "Let me go first," she ordered her, "and go slowly!"

Dirt continued to rain down through the steaming air as they made their way up the slope, their new boots filling with quickly cooling sludge, their gloved hands caking, sticking their fingers together.  Natasha choked for air then threw herself up another step.  The yells from the yard could soon be heard again, but she jerked back to feel her leg almost completely submerge.  The limb began to warm...then burn.

"Ah!" she yelped and yanked her leg out, praying her boot wouldn't stick.  That often happened in mud, since the boots were still quite large on her.  Squeezing her toes hard, she pulled everything out and flung it to the side, forcing herself to lie on the dirt like a great, dead bird until she could look and see how close to the top she really was.  Reaching up, she felt the edge of the ground at last and pulled herself up more, but it seemed the more she pulled, the more the dirt collapsed from beneath her.  "Polina? Are you there?"

"Wait!"  Polina crawled up from behind, halfway climbed over her to get to the top then turned around.  Lying on the ground face up, she continued to tremble and cry even as she grabbed Natasha's hand and pulled it.

"You and me," Natasha said, stopping to catch her breath.

"We are aways better together," Polina wept to finish.  She was covered in dirt and ash, caked where her tears had been, and the new coat Mrs. Kitaev had given her was singed on the sleeve, but she looked otherwise unharmed and was calming quickly now that Natasha was out of the hole with her.

The hole...  And if the house and everyone was gone, would they have to go straight back to the tunnels? What would happen to them?

Settling herself on finding out, Natasha got them up and started them toward where the house should have been.  The steam was quickly fading, and the dirt was finally settling.  But then they saw it was not only swirls of dirt.  Stumbling into the yard, Natasha counted them: Mr. Dolina, Mrs. Dolina, Anja and Marko.  Irisha and Olek were likely inside the house.

The house.  It was still there.  Her heart beat with relief.  It had not been harmed.  Irisha and Olek were safe as were the others, and her mother's things were safe, too.

Only as they came close, though, did they see what _had_ been destroyed in the second strike: The barn.

The barn--the cow.  Looking to where its side used to be, they clearly saw the chicken yard was also gone.  Only a few remained, running around, confused or fluttering on the ground.

There would be no more milk.  There would be only a few eggs, if that many.  The soup from the injured chickens would last a few weeks, but then their use was done.  There would be no more food but what little they could drag from the city.

Polina, realizing the same, began to tremble anew, and her breaths came once again in little gasps as she tried to keep it back.  But Natasha knew she wouldn't.  Within seconds, Polina's tears returned, and she buried it in her filthy scarf.  "She's dead, too!" she sobbed.  "Milk, gone!  Everything gone!"  She ran past the others and into the house before she could be punished.

Long unable to be so guilty, Natasha stepped silently to where the others were staring at the devastation, knowing but half disbelieving, completely aware of their doom but unable to voice any lament--which would have been useless, anyway.  Her chest felt heavy, and her stomach a little ill.  But she breathed into it, breathed it away.

It was done.  There was nothing they could do about it now.

"Accept and move forward," she whispered, her gaze unbroken.

They all looked at her.  The chill wind drove through the fields and pushed the debris cloud away, revealing a black hole where the barn and all within it used to be.  There was no blood, no ruined buckets, no shards of glass or fragments of beams.  All was gone, and might as well have never existed.  

Like them all.  The cadres had said it again: They all meant as much as did the dust and soot.

Natasha could only glance at it, and all the feeling had gone away.  All but the anger, quiet but sure inside her heart.  But that never went away, now.

Moving to Mr. Dolina's side, she unhooked the supply bag from her shoulder harness and dropped it at his feet.

* * *

"Lift, focus, aim, fire," she recited to herself, now that Mr. Dolina had gone to do something else.  She was not curious enough to look and see what it was.  "Focus on now.  Now is all you have.  Lift, focus, aim..."

The pain came back, and the bothersome looseness was tempting her tongue away from its rest, distracting her.

"Lift, focus..."

Growling, Natasha lowered her laser cutter and stuffed it in her pocket.  She wiped her hands hastily on her shirt and got a hold of the annoyance; wriggling it furiously, she started to twist it.  She had been doing this for a few days, but it would not budge.  But now it had grown too much, and so her determination doubled.  Giving it a few swift pushes and pulls, she finally yanked the loose tooth out.  

"At last!" she breathed and looked at it.  It was brown and eaten away at a little.  Wrinkling her nose, she tossed the tooth away and swished the spit and blood around in her mouth for a minute.  Spitting a few more times, the pain faded to relief to have the offensive thing gone.  Feeling with her tongue, the new one was already on its way in.

She dug in her pocket and pulled the cutter back out.  Staring at the targets then turning away from them, she went through the moves again: "Lift, focus, aim, fire!"

She swung around, lifted the cutter, saw the target, aimed and fired.  The beam struck near the center.

She did not smile, but reset the weapon and walked away from the target again.

There was little else to do until the others got back.

There was no milk.  All the chickens but two were gone.  The field, burnt then irradiated with phaser blasts, would not even grow weeds.  Mrs. Dolina learned this bitterly after transplanting the seedlings only to watch them wither and die.  Natasha and the others watched her storm into the kitchen and come out with baskets.  She threw them at Natasha and Polina, who took it with a sigh and walked silently to the west, where the grass and weeds had been undisturbed for the while.

They fully expected the cadres to kill that land, too.  They had made the hills brown and black, now, and the mountains shone a pale grey.  All the land that they could see had lost its color, its very life.

As had they all.

When she set the cutter down to let it recharge, she saw Mr. Dolina's hard eyes set upon her.  She stared back, saying nothing and not moving.  After a minute, he nodded to himself and stepped quietly into the house.

She went back to her aiming.

* * *

"I know you are awake," came Mr. Dolina's voice from the top of the basement stairs.  Natasha had heard the door open, quiet and slow, unlike the usual manner in that house.  "Get your coat and come here, quietly."

Prying herself away from Polina's side, she did as asked.

He was waiting for her in the rear yard, a quiet court where they aired their laundry and stayed when they did not want to be bothered.  The air was rather cool but not nearly as cold as it had been a month ago, and the moons' lights filtered through the haze enough that Natasha's eyes quickly adjusted.  

When she came close enough, Mr. Dolina opened his hand to show her what it was, a wire with handles at each end.  

"This is a garrote--an ancient weapon.  This one has some modern...improvements.  It is silent and it is effective in stopping a predator from two meters away, and to power it requires only your skill and speed.  I am going to teach you how to use it."

Natasha's brow furrowed.  "Why?"

"Phasers lose power.  This garrote dies only with you."  He eyed her.  "I have been told of the gangs who prey on young in the tunnels you must run through."

She felt her heart shrink.  She still could hear the man's voice from her first run to the Heights.  "Yes, Mr. Dolina."  

"If you cannot shoot, if your phaser is taken or dead, and you cannot run, what do you think you will do?"

Natasha knew by then that he did not expect an answer, so she did not speak.

"I am going to teach you how to use this.  It is mine.  We will make you one better sized for your hand."  He got to a knee to face her.  "Will you be too frightened to take down a person with your own hands?"

Natasha thought about that.  "I will be frightened if a bad person comes very near to me, but I will want to live more than I will be afraid."

He nodded.  "That is a good answer.  I only hope you will not need to use what I teach."

"Have you taught this before?"

"Why do you ask?"

Natasha shrugged.  "Many people in the tunnels call you an old hawk.  They say you fought in a war and did many things that most people did not know about.  I have not asked what you did."

Mr. Dolina's face drew into a smile.  "When I was young, Natasha, about the Kitaevs' age, my work was very different.  I went into bad places and helped bring information from there.  Sometimes, I helped people to defend themselves--even young ones like you, because they had no other way.  So, to answer your question, yes, I have taught this before, long ago.  I choose you to learn first because I see that you will use what I teach well.  Anja and Marko are good, strong children, but they insist on doing things their way.  They turn away when I offer anything more than phasers.  You want to learn.  You insist on survival.  But then, you are your mother's child.  She would have done the same."

Natasha's eyes widened.  "Mama would have killed someone?"

"To survive? Were she in our lot and we were threatened? I believe she would, yes.  She would not want to, but she would."

"You would have taught her, too?"

"Yes.  But she is not with us, and so I teach you--and I will teach you everything I can."

"You have taught me many things already."

"There will always be more.  This is first."

"And then you will teach the others?"

Mr. Dolina scowled.  "Why do you keep asking about what the others know?"

"You send Polina and I to the tunnels so that we know what to do if Anja or Marko are hurt or killed.  So I wonder if they will know what to do if I am hurt or killed."

The old man's face grew broad with a pleased smile.  "You are a sensible girl," he said.  "When you learn, I will try again with the others."

Natasha likewise knew better than to ask if Polina would be taught.  "Yes, Mr. Dolina."

She was tired of shooting a box cutter, anyway.

* * *

Spring produced a few buds on the trees that had survived.  Drizzle had graced the East Province a few times as the winter lost its grip, and though it only made slush and mud that filled the crevices of the cracked dirt, it was not cursed.  Then the air grew warm, billows of warmth hurling over the land from the sea far north of Orvo.  It did its work where it could, filling the streams and leveling the disrupted earth.  

Then, the miracle: Coming out of the house one cool morning, Natasha and Olek stared at the color in wonder: Pink.  

"Had it been there before?" Olek asked.

"I do not think so," Natasha answered.

"What are you looking at?" It was Anja.  She too came out of the house, pushing her braided hair over her shoulder then tightening the belt on her oversized tunic.  She had gotten it from the pile across from the Kitaevs' hovel--a man's tunic, bedecked in gold and green stripes.  She liked it exceedingly, even if it hung off her long, thin body like a blanket on a pole, and made her stand out more than their usual drab clothing did.  Natasha knew Mrs. Dolina would take care of that soon.  Anja probably did, too, but enjoyed the color while she could.

Natasha gestured to the flowers on the trees.  "Look."

Anja sighed.  "I wish it would last forever."

"Nothing lasts forever," Natasha replied and pulled her satchel onto her shoulder.  Starting away, she did not look back to see if Olek was following her or not.

"Natasha!"  Turning, she saw Mrs. Dolina coming out of the kitchen with Irisha in tow and a bag in her hand.  "Give the bag to Daryna Zlenko and tell her Lev sent it."  She turned Natasha around and stuffed it into her backpack.  Turning her forward again, she put a slip of paper in her front pocket.  "That is for the Kitaevs.  If they find Opal Wengel, there is another note for her in there.  Put it in Opal's hand yourself and get her answer."

Natasha blinked, feeling the weight of whatever was added to her backpack and wondering why Olek was not given the thing, and then with her cryptic request.  "Yes, Mrs. Dolina."

"Now go," the woman replied and took Irisha's hand.  "Time to play ball now," she said in Standard.

"Yay!" Irisha cheered and darted for the supply bin.  "I'll get the ball!"  

"Careful!  Don't fall!"

Natasha watched her little sister skip away a moment longer before turning back to her path.

Why hadn't Mr. Dolina come out himself to give her the bag? He would have told her what they were.  Where was he? Was he trying to get the transponder working again?

Why did Mrs. Dolina keep Irisha away from them all of the time? Away from her?

"Opal Wengel is Mrs. Dolina's cousin," Olek supplied as he jogged to catch up, answering her last question before she could think to wonder about it.  "Anja noticed a card she made in the hall across from the bedroom--the one in the grey frame? She heard someone talk about the Wengels having to move hovels after a cadre raid and told Mrs. Dolina."

Natasha looked at him.  Once a little chubby like all the Bobenkos had been, the eleven year-old had become leaner than the rest of them, though not much taller.  Natasha was nearly his height already.  Somehow, however, Olek had never lost his ability to fill the space with chatter.  Mr. Dolina would have beaten him sorely from pure annoyance were Olek not as tireless a worker.  Conversely, Natasha had grown to like him all the more since the last winter and his illness.  He had grown much nicer since then, too.  "Do you want to take them the note?"

"You would rather stay at the Kitaevs'?" he asked.  

"I need to find things at Mrs. Zlenko's hovel."

"Good luck!"  Putting out his hand, Olek took the note when Natasha handed it over.  "Thanks, Natasha."

"Why?"

"This gives me something besides the Heights to think about.  --Though, having some real food is something to think about, too, if you can call rations real food.  But I miss having a full stomach!"

Natasha understood that sentiment, though she refrained from saying anything about it.  It only reminded her of what they lacked.

All of Mr. Dolina's searches around the countryside had turned up no more chickens or any other bird that could be of any use to them.  They had taken to eating the grasses and flowers around the area, and small ground animals if they could catch them.  They tasted terrible, but no one said anything, now.  Mrs. Dolina, her once fitted clothes bulky around her long frame, would cook everything they could bring in a big, watery stew with grass, tree bark and what wild onions she could dig up when they could bring nothing from the city.  When crossfire was very bad, they could go without rations for weeks.

Orvo City and most within it had been destroyed almost a year and a half ago; all but a few of the surviving citizens and their ragged families now lived in its guts: bottom feeders to digest the pitiful remains of the vicious rats who had made their living hell.  The Dolinas and the six of them had survived in the countryside, holding out against that looming defeat.  The soldiers told them that there were others like them, and they were giving in, one by one.

"They are not us," Mr. Dolina had replied to one of the soldiers who had come to inform them of this, turning his back on the next soldier who had come to warn them.  "If you kill me now, I lose nothing more than I already have."

The soldier did not kill him.  Instead, he turned his gaze away to the children.  Locking in finally on Natasha, his face was kindly, perhaps even sentimental.  He almost looked like he wanted to say something, but did not.  She stared back at him, wondering if she should know him from before, if they had met, if he had been in their house or knew her family.  He did not look like a bad man at all, she thought, but she did not want him to speak.  He belonged to people who wanted them dead, so she did not want him to speak another word.  He belonged to soldiers who had killed her people.  That made him not a nice man.  That made him her enemy.

Mr. Dolina had been reminding her not to be prey to niceties, and not to be nice for the sake of manners.  Not there.  Not with people who were not her people, and did not care about them.

Thankfully, the soldier kept his thoughts to himself, though his expression did not change.  Then he sighed.  Not wanting him to destroy her with his pity instead of his phaser, Natasha crossed her arms on her chest.  At that, he turned and went back to his hovercar, disappearing with his people soon after.

Three weeks later, Natasha stood in the door of the Kitaevs' hovel, looking plainly at her usual hosts.  Dima stood behind her, already ready to make a run with her and Olek, and Mrs. Kitaev, seeing her, resisted coming forward to offer an embrace.  

Instead, she smiled and ushered her and Olek to come in and sit.  She handed them ration bars and water.  "We expected you sooner," she admonished them.  "We were worried that you were unwell."

Olek then explained the soldiers' returns and the bombings at night, how the land had been razed and the lack of food.  The Kitaevs looked at each other solemnly, and then turned their attention to the children again.  "You are well otherwise?" Mr. Kitaev asked.

"We are," Natasha said and bumped Olek with her elbow.  The boy was so happy to eat that he had forgotten the duty he had taken on.  "Olek, the letter."

"Oh!"  He pulled it out and gave it to Mrs. Kitaev.

Mrs. Kitaev immediately nodded at the letter's contents.  "Opal Wengel.  Yes, she and her husband live on Three-East-Three.  We can send for her, but I doubt she will come."

"Olek must go down himself," Natasha told her.  "Mrs. Dolina wants her letter put in her hand and a response.  But he will need a guide."

"I can take you," Dima offered.

Natasha eyed him as she finished the first half of her ration.  She put the rest in her pocket.  "I will come, too, so I know where they are."  Looking back at the Kitaevs, she could see their silent approval and flicked a smile their way.

The moment they stepped off the ladders and jumped onto level three, Natasha pulled her dun hat from her pocket.  "We will go to the Heights when we are finished."

Dima chuckled.  "I thought you would say that," he said, looking at her askance.  "You joined us so they do not bother you about running the tunnel?"

"I thought they might try to keep me, with Olek here," Natasha admitted.  "Are you coming, too?"

"I would not be here otherwise.  How about you, Olek?"

"Do you need me to go this time?"

"No," Natasha answered immediately.  "You can help the Kitaevs if you want."

Olek grinned.  Natasha knew he would like that idea.  Like Polina, he was not a fast runner and much more inclined to hands-on work.

On the contrary, Natasha looked forward to running.  She did not wonder why.  Mr. Dolina had also been teaching her not to complicate things like that.

Opal Wengel was a slender, older lady with a long, grey-blonde braid and bright, light blue eyes that even the stark, level three lights could not mask--a pretty lady, Natasha thought, very unlike Mrs. Dolina.  She would never had called them related.  Her husband was grey and shrunken into the corner with what looked like a paper book.  It was so tattered, Natasha almost did not recognize it.  It had a few letters she recognized on the front.  He did not even look when they came in and Olek announced his purpose.

Mrs. Wengel took the letter Olek handed her and read it.  Soberly, her eyes moved back and forth, and she blinked a few times in a sigh.  But at last, she looked at Olek and said in Standard, "Yes.  Tell her yes."

"Yes to what?" Mr. Wengel demanded, at last distracted from his book.

"I'll tell you later," she replied and pocketed the letter.  "Tell Liza yes."

Natasha shrugged and led the way out a moment later.  "That was easier than I had expected."

"Deadwood survivors," Dima muttered as he caught up with her.  Grabbing her arm, he ducked them into a nook and snatched Olek away, too.  "Wait."

They did just that, well-trained in silence.  A group of men passed by in the corridor, talking amongst themselves in Standard.  When they were gone, Dima did not yet move.  "Circle men.  They hate us almost as much as Cadre soldiers do.  They think it is our fault the city fell."

"But ours were the ones who were killed!" Natasha retorted in a harsh whisper.

"People like that do not care about the truth, Natasha, and they do all they can to avoid it.  It is why we must be stronger, and live in truth, no matter how difficult it is."  Dima grinned, there, and admitted, "Mr. Sereda teaches this."

"So does Mr. Dolina," Natasha replied.

Dima peeked out of the nook and gave Olek a nod.  "Come!  We will let you off on level one.  Tell the Kitaevs I am going to show Natasha a few more routes.  They will not like it, so tell them I promised to be careful."

An hour later, Natasha dove under an old strut support and grabbed the handle there, following the teenager south and up to the trickle of light that made its way through the earth, tempting them straight.

But they knew better by then.

Dima's hand shot back and flicked left.  Natasha ducked to scoot under a beam and slink into the next and narrower passage, an old tertiary air vent.  Dima was on her heels a moment later, crawling on his elbows and knees.

At the junction, she turned right.

She had learned all of the main routes and the rules of the tunnels by then, her eighth time there.  It was almost like a sport--a sport that could leave her dead, and yet the challenge, while still frightening, was automatic to her now.  It was like that to the other tunnel runners, too.  Having nearly fourteen years, Dima was one of the oldest.  Though he was tall, he was slender enough to easily slip through even the narrowest passage, and he taught Natasha and the others well how not to be snagged by the various shards of metal--some purposefully planted--or be seen by the random surveillance bots that floated through the upper passages.

"They are blind to the walls," he instructed her and Marko one time, "so stick to them like the sludge, and it will pass."

Natasha soon because very good at moulding against the wall in such a way that even her spotter once missed her.  Katerina, another runner a year Dima's junior, nearly jumped out of her skin when Natasha tapped her from behind then slipped quickly by for the next junction.  The diverted teenager had to withhold her snickers as she caught up.

"You should live here," she told her later.

"I am glad I do not!" Natasha responded.

With experience, the fear was all but gone, as well.  Rather, it was a piqued alertness, a readiness to escape at any moment--and an expectation that she would need to at any moment.  It was fear, but one she was accustomed to and did not distract her anymore.  Desire for any prize that could be had outweighed the worry and the memories that might have told her she should never, ever do such things.  The reward was too great, even when it was very small.

"Excellent!" Mr. Kitaev lauded when she and Dima poured their meagre goods onto the table.  With a quick and expert hand, he divided their spoils, pushing a portion to Dima, a small pile to Natasha and taking a portion for the supply shelf.  "You both have done very well tonight!  This is more than most have managed since the last battle!"

"Would they battle until _they_ are all managed," Dima muttered, but then thanked his host and took a seat.  Pulling a brown cloth from his pocket, he wiped his tunnel-blackened face.

Natasha frowned to see her allotment.  Even so unevenly divided in her favor, there was hardly enough for them all.  Mr. Dolina would send them back immediately, she knew.

Mrs. Kitaev gave them water and bade them to sit.  "Alexi Teliga is coming tonight," she told them.

"On his own?" Dima asked, broken from his unhappiness with the news.

"No, no.  Alyona is bringing him this time."  She sighed.  "I would have him live closer, but Alyona wants to be near her cousins, and no one else is able to help him.  I do not blame her."

"If the Seredas would let me, I would help him," Dima said.

"I know.  But they need _you_ with them and on the end of the corridor--as do we all."

Dima relented.  Dima and Mr. Sereda sat watch most nights on level One West.  The other teenagers Natasha had met said that they knew every creak and sound.  Dima did not need to tell anyone that.  Natasha could tell in his cool blue eyes that he was always listening.  She understood.  She was always watching.

_"Nata!  You do not always listen, but you forget nothing you see!"_

And Matviyko's dear face came into her mind so swiftly that she felt her eyes sting.

 _"Yes!  --And I_ choose _what to hear and ignore what bores me,"_ little Natasha had tartly replied, and they both laughed a moment before her eldest brother's arms wrapped tightly around her to snatch her off the ground and swing her in a circle, warm beneath the afternoon sun and the swaying grasses of the path leading home...

She blinked away the laughter and the sting, the shiver in her chest when she did not want the feeling inside her, and came back to her feet in the dark and the stench.  Turning her eyes away from Dima, she regarded the somber form of Mrs. Kitaev once again.  "Who is Mr. Teliga?"

"He is an elderly gentlemen, a former Starfleet officer," the lady told her and she settled herself to pull out her project bag and a hook.  Immediately, her fingers set to work knotting string into new cloth.  "You both will enjoy his stories, even if they run together a bit."

"Why must he be helped?"

"Mr. Teliga cannot live alone," Mrs. Kitaev answered.  "He is a good man who is very useful, but he is almost one hundred fifteen, and he cannot receive the medications he needs.  Cicilo cannot treat him with what little he has, and so Mr. Teliga's memory has become very bad.  He needs to live with someone to remind him to take care of himself, and he needs someone to busy himself with.  He puts out the meals and keeps the hovel neat."  

Dima nodded.  "It would still be better if he were closer.  Bringing him to the atrium is going to become more difficult."

"Perhaps soon, Dima, when a better arrangement can be found."

The teenager let it go at that.

Soon after they finished their water and a few bites of ration, the man in question came in.  Alyona, a middle-aged lady with badly cut brown hair and a dirty white coat that seemed too hot for the tunnels, stood nearly on his heels when they entered.  Once within, she let him have some space to come in and kiss Mr. and Mrs. Kitaev and shuffle to a chair they had placed for him.  Natasha took his looks in right away: He had bushy grey hair and light brown eyes, and his skin was frightfully pale.  But his expression was bright, almost innocent, even while seeming quite wise.  She could feel his goodness in his smile.  He looked at her, but only nodded, brightening briefly as though he knew her.

Soon, he spoke, though, and Natasha immediately understood why Dima had wanted the old man's company.

"Then, a way opened and we took it--there was no choice but to burn in the explosion or take chances in the next pocket of the nebula.  Ah!  But there is a saying on Earth: Out of the frying pan and into the fire--and fire we got!

"Three cruisers circled us--and we with no torpedoes left!  No phasers!  All had been consigned to life support!"  Mr. Teliga's thin hands rose into the air.  "We searched for another pocket to slip through--there--there--but nothing.  We hardly stood a chance!  Captain Hargrove looked at me.  Never had I seen her so solemn, so serious.  She drew a deep breath and, patting my arm with her hand, told me to power down the ship--all but life support.  I was shocked!  Power down? Had I heard correctly?"

Olek was on his knees next to Dima, and both boys' eyes were like plates.  A few other kids from the section had peeked into the door of the Kitaevs' hovel to listen.  "Had you?" Olek asked.

"Indeed I..."  Mr. Teliga suddenly stopped, his eyes casting aside.  Then he blinked.  "It was a bad day on the Parstani," he started--the story all over again from the start.

Dima elbowed Olek.  "Never interrupt him!" he whispered.  "He forgets what he is thinking!"

"Sorry," Olek whispered back, slumping.

"Do not do it again!"

"You should have warned Olek if you knew he would start over," Natasha scolded him in her own right and got to her feet, ignoring Dima's responsive glare.  Shouldering her way out, she was halfway down the corridor before Mr. Kitaev caught up with her.  "Where are you going, Natasha?"

"I promised Mrs. Zlenko I would visit," she answered quietly, still angry with Dima and just wanting to get away from the others.  It felt so crowded there.  For reasons she could not understand, she had come to dislike being around too many people.  "I know the way."

"Come back when you have finished," Mr. Kitaev told her.

"Yes, sir."

Slipping around the corner into East-One, she strode around the long, connecting tunnel to the three hundred meter stretch between West-Two and North-Two.  Just past the bend, she looked to the right and saw Mrs. Zlenko.  The woman seemed to be waiting for her, settled on a metal issue bench with a tray of small parts at her fingers.  "Ah!  At last you come back to me, Natasha!" she praised.  Setting the tray on the bench, she got up and went directly into her shelves.  "I found the other parts from the list Marko brought--enough, I think, to finally get that comm working." 

"Mr. Dolina will like that," Natasha replied, not relaying the fit of frustration the old man had suffered when he discovered what else was wrong with the old unit.  The decrease in power had made more parts weaken then finally burn out.  

Her eyes fastened not on that, though.  As she came into the space and into full view of the bins, she saw a bundle of wire and a few long rods.  "Mrs. Zlenko, may I have this wire? I think Mr. Dolina has need for this, too."

Mrs. Zlenko glanced over.  "Polycarbide data line? For _his_ house?"  

"It looks like something he wanted," Natasha repeated.  "If he does not need it, I will bring it back."

Mrs. Zlenko shrugged.  "You may keep it--but I will wrap it.  Be careful!  It is thin but very strong, and it can cut you very easily with only a little pull."

"Yes, Mrs. Zlenko.  ...Yes, that is what he had wanted."

* * *

Mr. Dolina's hand was swift and brutal.  "You lazy little bastard!  How could you come back to us with _this_?"

"It is more than all in the tunnels have!" Olek responded, scrambling up from the ground.  He had known he would be punished.

"This is not enough!  Not enough!  You will go back!"

"There is nothing to get!"

"Then you stay _there_ and starve!"

"I will be happy to go!  Better that than live with you!"

"Mr. Dolina."

The two stopped and looked at Natasha, who, feeling terrible for Olek, summoned her guile enough to put herself in the middle of their melee and stand strong and quiet.  Usually, she did all she could to avoid the fights, particularly those involving the boys, which had become more combative as they grew older.

"What?!" the old man barked, his fists still balled.

Natasha pulled out the wire and presented it.  "I found this at Mrs. Zlenko's hovel."

Like a switch had been turned, Mr. Dolina grabbed it from her hand and jerked his chin toward the back of the house.  "Come, girl!"  He set off.

Glancing a little grin at Olek, Natasha hurried to follow and reminded herself to remain quiet.  She knew all too well that Mr. Dolina, particularly when he was hungry, could turn back again to fury just as quickly.

By the time she got to the back of the house, he had already readied a drill and was finding the handles he had fashioned and his laser drill.  "Yes, yes, this will be very strong--and difficult to see in the dim light!  Very good!"

Natasha simply nodded.

He stomped over to his tool bin, he set the handles into vises and drilled a few holes into the handles.  Then he pulled out a fixant tube.  Filling the holes he had drilled with it, he then inserted the wire and twisted it until it clicked.  Crouching down, he maneuvered a few more things into the handles, wrapping a kind of spring around the wire at each base and pressing another mechanism more deeply in.  Then he turned the fixant tube around and pressed a button.  The glue-like substance hardened.

With a nod, Mr. Dolina put everything away.  Glancing at Natasha, who had not moved from the edge of his work area, he swung the handle around, making the second handle swish in the air.  With a jerk of his hand, it sprung up.  "Good."  Moving to the side of the yard, he let the handle swing around at a tree.  It snapped around like lightning, the cord sawing into the wood as though it were a wet ration cube.  Natasha's eyes widened as Mr. Dolina tugged again and the wire dug nearly halfway through the tree.

Then, pressing a button on the handle and giving the garrote a swift tug outward, it loosened and sprung away from its victim.  Mr. Dolina jerked his hand and caught the second handle.

"Excellent," he said with gruesome satisfaction.  "Come, girl!"  She came into his space and looked up at him.  Moving behind Natasha, he put his hands on hers, the handle of the garrote in her left hand.  "Learn with the both hands, Natasha--left first, just like with the phasers.  Relax.  Let me guide you."

"Yes, Mr. Dolina," Natasha responded quietly and watched him guide her hands to whip the handle around as he had.

"When you use this," he instructed, "and when you use the phaser, too, look them in the eyes if you can, Natasha!  Let them know who their foe is!"

This was nothing new to her.  Mr. Dolina said those words often.  But for a reason Natasha could not help, Mrs. Kitaev's kindly face came into her mind, and she found herself asking, "Must I kill, Mr. Dolina?"

"You kill if you want to live!" he snapped back.  He looked at her, his eyes bright and mouth straight.  "Do you want to live, Natasha?"

"Yes."

"What?" he demanded.  "Tell me what you want, girl!"

"Yes, I want to live!" Natasha responded, this time strongly and believing it.  Sometimes, she did not know.  But just then, she did.  "I want to live, Mr. Dolina!"

He shoved the garrote at her.  "Then look them in the eyes and let them know who you are--and then you kill before they kill you!"

* * *

She held the handles in her hands, close against her chest all night, her eyes wide open as the torpedo blasts sounded all around the house, shaking its frame even deep in the basement.  Polina wept softly at her side, buried under the covers, as though the covers would save her.

A scream of fire came down and struck soundly enough to light the whole room in red.  Polina cried out.

"Shut up!" Marko snapped from across the room, returned to blackness as the flames died as quickly as they had been ignited.  "I hate your crying, Polina!"

"You shut up!" Natasha returned, her fists tightening around the handles as her friend burrowed against her, even more upset, now.  "Only a stupid ass would not be frightened!"

Marko said nothing, nor did anyone else.

Natasha, too, had said all she had needed, and stared through the dark to the flashes of fire and phaser shots that showed through the little window, blue and red in the black.

She could not kill them--but if they killed her, she would at least face it.

As she was taught.

As she was taught.

_"Where is Nata?_

_"She is coming with your parents today, Matviyko.  Soon, you will all be together again and we shall be at your Uncle Nazar's cottage, enjoying...  Antonin? What is that?"_

_"It was...  God no!  No!  Tatyana!  Matviy!  RUN!"_

And suddenly they all were swept into the flame--Aunt Tatyana's flaxen hair and pretty hands and her brother's hair and clothes and the screams as his skin melted and Uncle Antonin burst into blood, fury and pain and the fire and bombs struck them, tearing them all into flesh and ruin...

"Matviy!"  Natasha jumped up and ran to the stairs, stumbling in a second of darkness and gasping for breath.

She had fallen asleep.

She had not meant to fall asleep.

"Say nothing to me!" she yelled, knowing they all had heard her.  Crawling up the stairs to the door, she crept into the kitchen and slipped into the corner by the sink.

"Aren't they all silly to have a party tonight!" Mrs. Dolina's laughter echoed in between bursts.  "They're only fireworks."

"I don't like them!" Irisha told her

"They'll go away--I promise--and then we'll sleep."

"They should ask before being noisy."

Mrs. Dolina laughed.  "Yes they should!  But they're just being silly.  They'll-- Lev? Where are you going?"

"Out of this happy place," he replied coldly.  The bedroom door opened and shut a moment later, flooding the room with light.  The bedroom had blackout shades on the windows, so they could keep their lights on.  The starkness hurt Natasha's eyes.  Thankfully, he closed the door behind him.

A few seconds later, Mr. Dolina stomped into the kitchen.  In a fireflash, he saw her in her corner.  In another, she saw him nodding.  A moment later, he was lighting a small podlight, which he put on the table, and then filling a couple of glasses with water, which he put on either side of the light.  Then he pulled a chair and waved his hand at it.

"Come, sit," he told her.  "If we are struck, sitting in the corner will not save you."

Natasha did as told.

Wordlessly, they sipped their water and waited out the firefight together.

* * *

Weeks later, scratching an itch in her dirty hair, Natasha's eyes turned out to the field.  It was black again, withered from yet another razing the house had barely escaped.  Mr. Dolina said the cadres were doing it on purpose--teasing them, leering at them with their ships and guns, things they knew the few remaining provincials did not have.  Mr. Kitaev had warned Marko and Anja on their last visit to Orvo to take some of their things to the tunnels next time.  The leaders would eventually tire of their game and come after them.  They probably would not be able to take everything they would like to have in one trip.

The teenagers did not argue with that, and passed on the instructions to the others.  The Dolinas said nothing in protest.

Natasha was unhappy about this prospect.  The Kitaevs were kind and Mrs. Zlenko was warm and interesting, but she did not want to go to the tunnels, into the stench and the dark with but the atrium to show her the sky.

Nevertheless, when she next ran to Orvo, she brought what she had of her parents' items and the clothes she had grown out of, dutifully settling them with the others' things in an empty space not far from the Kitaevs' hovel.

She blinked.  The winds was blowing up the sand again.

It should not have been so hot and dry by that time of year.  Mrs. Dolina said the cadres had damaged the small, fragile habitable zone that the original colonists had worked so hard to develop.  It would only become worse in the areas not directly next to the springs.

It had not rained in three months.  They expected none soon.

Polina drew circles in the caked dirt.  Marko sat with a battered book he had read probably a hundred times.  Natasha "dry-fired" the phaser over and over to try to work out the sticky depress.  Exhaling, she stuck it in her pocket and sat down next to Marko.  Turning the book her way to share it, he silently continued.  Anja had stopped teaching Natasha, for they had little else to read there and Natasha could read everything the older girl could.  She had long grown past her old Yevak School books.  They were now in the tunnels under Mr. Kitaev's care.  The teacher had been very happy to have some things to share with the children there.

Anja and Olek would return from Orvo soon, but no one spoke of ay anticipation.  No one waited for them.  They simply were outside for lack of anywhere else to go and anything else to do.

They all tried not to do very much, now, lest they become hungry.  It had been many weeks since they had been able to access the Heights.  Anja was there again with Olek, trying yet again to replenish their meagre supply.  There were only so many weeds to fill their stomachs.

"I will get another book," Marko told her after turning the last page to the blank one.  They knew the last leaf was blank, but they always turned to it, anyway.  He stood and went to the house.

Natasha looked out toward the field again.

Mr. Dolina sat on a stool beneath the tree, hunched over.  Under his heavy grey brow, he glared out at the wrecked landscape.  Natasha thought she knew what he was thinking, about how green it once had been, lush with trees and flowers everywhere, crops in the field and vines heavy over every fence and gate, the coffers rich with milk and butter, honey and cheese.  She remembered holding her father's hand as they came down the hill and across the thick, green tufts of grass, she remembered hearing the Dolinas, those strange, harsh people, yelling at each other to pull what they knew her father would like to barter for.  Water ran over rocks in the creek, fat chickens clucked and fussed in the pen, and the world smelled of nectar and fresh dirt.

 _"Good morning, Mr. Dolina!"_ her father had always called out with a wave of his long, gentle hand.  _"How are you today?"_

 _"Well, Ilya Fedirovich!"_ Mr. Dolina always called back is his heavy, gruff voice as he waved behind him.  _"Come in!  Come in!  I have what you need!  --Liza!"_

And the taste of fresh, soft cheese on her mother's bread was the most wonderful taste in the world, a world that was sweet and happy, full of love...and innocence.

She once had been so loved.  The Dolinas once were happy, too.

The air was dry and stank of plasma residue.

Now the world was hot, brown and black.  The sky was an ever-present haze of sickly yellow.

Their world had died, and Mr. Dolina's heart had died with it.

But he still had his soul, and it hurt.  She knew it did, because hers did, too.

Nothing but their will to survive was left.  

_And of course_ you _should survive,"_ she told herself, sometimes half aloud as she picked apart the old, beat up phaser Mr. Dolina had taught her how to clean.  Her thin fingers moved easily over the inner notches and relay connectors.  _As long as Irisha is alive, I should live._ She had not forgotten her mother's last requests of her, and Mr. Dolina's constant lessons.  She would be terrible to waste it all only because she was tired.

Marko came outside again, the ancient history book in his hand.  They had read that one only yesterday.  

Natasha turned her back to the sun to look at the old, tired images once again.

On the other side of the house, Mrs. Dolina was walking with Irisha, chatting with as much animation as she could and responding to the little girl's ignorant cheer.  Only Irisha enjoyed the woman's good humor.  Only Irisha enjoyed a full stomach.  They all had agreed that she was too little to suffer, though it _was_ difficult to watch her eat the few, pitiful eggs and the hateful cabbage when their stomachs clawed at them.  None of them stayed in the kitchen after what was left of mealtime.

Accustomed to constant attention, the three year-old likewise got the softest blankets and had plenty of clothes, made from the ones Natasha had grown out of by a doting Mrs. Dolina.  As the other children had slowly learned Standard, Mrs. Dolina was careful to speak to Irisha only in that language so that it was what the little girl knew first.  Accordingly, Natasha spent little time with her sister even when she was there.  Natasha felt bad to feel so unconnected to the last member of her family left alive, but she still did not like speaking Standard, and she could not bring herself to be close to the little girl--which was no loss to Irisha.  She had a great preference for the Dolinas.  When she did pay the other children or Natasha attention, it was to tell them they smelled bad or asked why they were so angry.

Natasha looked at the phaser again, and then the target.

 _Because we are the ones who protect you, and must be angry and work,_ Natasha silently answered, angry and resigning in the same thought.

A shuffling in the woods on the far side of the house made her turn and get up.  "Anja? Olek?" she said and walked around to see.  She blew a breath of relief to see not only their older friend returning, but with two bags slung over her shoulder.  Her back was bent, and dark circles framed her eyes, but she was there and had been moderately successful.

Then Natasha noticed that Anja was alone, and her heart shrank.  She jogged out into the path to meet Anja, but looking around, she saw no one else.  "Where is Olek?"

Anja walked past her.  "Come in, Natasha.  I do not want to say it twice."

The teenager almost collapsed at the kitchen table when she got there.  "Get me some water," she told Polina, and she drank half of the jug before Mrs. Dolina came in, shooing Irisha to the bedroom to play.  Mr. Dolina was already through the spare parts she had collected in the first bag and was starting on the foodstuffs in the second when Anja could at last speak again.

"Olek is dead," she said.

A proper silence followed the statement, and Natasha's eyes closed for a moment as her heart felt the news.  Much as they had argued in the beginning, they had later become friends.  He had worked hard and never took more than he was given, which Polina had once suspected when it looked like eggs were going missing.  In the end, it turned out that Irisha had been playing with the eggs and hiding them under the dresser by her bed, unaware that she had been stealing meals from them.  Olek never blamed Polina, though, and had accepted her apology with a grin and a pat on her shoulder when she had cried for her guilt.

Olek had always been good, and he had been a friend.  Now he was dead.

"What happened?" Marko asked, breaking the pall even as he had slumped over the table with the news.

"The Heights," Anja said.  "We were coming back to the tunnel access when a firefight broke out--two other factions.  I barely got out.  He was right behind me when he was hit by two blasts.  It was so fast...  There is nothing left of him."

Her voice had tightened throughout the explanation, and she drank the other half of the jug to chase it away, her brown hand lined with dry ash and shaking.  

Natasha sighed.  She knew just how that could happen.  Three of the times that they were there, there was phaser fire.  Only luck had gotten her out, she understood.

"I want to sleep," Anja said abruptly and got up.  "I could die right now without being shot.  I have not slept in two days."

"Go, girl," Mr. Dolina told her, gentle even while not diverted from the rations and supplements, which he divided carefully.  "Polina," he said, and she brought him the baskets from the counter, holding back her sniffles.  He placed everything in a respective basket, reserving one ration bar.  Then he glanced aside and nodded.  "Get fresh water," he then told her.  She was at the door a moment later, reaching for the bucket as she left the house.

Natasha frowned.  It would be another hour or more until they could eat their portion--another hour held up with that news.  With the nearby stream polluted from runoff from the razed field, they were now getting water farther upstream and toward the hills.  It could be dangerous with the patrol ships flying randomly about, but it was away from there.  "May I go with Polina?" she asked.

"Yeah, yeah.  Go, Natasha."

Natasha took the other bucket and hurried to catch up with Polina.  Wordlessly, she came to her friend's side.  Reaching out, she met her hand and held it.  Feeling better with that touch alone, the girls' pace slowed, and their eyes turned forward.  In that fashion, they crossed west, passing under the thick tussuk and into a scraggly glade.  There, bugs darted and escaped.  Natasha breathed deeply.  Wild onions had managed to bloom in the dearth, dressing the air with a minty smell.

At the log tree, they turned south, toward the hills.

As they started climbing, Natasha's stomach clawed at her.  Glancing at what was around them, she reached down and grabbed a handful of onion sprigs and stuffed it in her mouth.  It wouldn't fill her for very long, and too much would make her sick, but it did cure the ache, and the water would wash down the bitterness when they got to the stream.

There, they filled the buckets they would bring back, but then took the opportunity to wash their faces and hair.  The water was coming out of the rocks, so it was bitterly cold, but neither of them complained.  They took a few minutes to rest, too, sitting on the bank and looking back east, where the land had remained bare all the way to the hills if not farther.  It hardly made Natasha blink now.

Instead, she pulled up the sleeve of the shirt she wore and re-rolled her tattered trouser leg.  She remembered then that she was wearing Olek's old clothes, and she sighed.  She would miss him.

But then she shook her head, hearing Mr. Dolina swear her off such thinking.  The only thing she should miss was her family, whose demise gave her a strength she would never have had otherwise, he had said.  Missing them gave her a want for fairness and right action.  After that, the deaths around them were unfortunate but expected on that terrible world, where the life of an eleven year-old boy could be taken, and no one would be be any more sorry about it than they would an adult's.

"Do you think we will go next, Natasha?"

She looked at Polina.  Her friend's thin face looked so harsh in that light, and her blond curls were leached almost white by the sun.  Her brow drawn with worry, her little mouth turned down, she looked like a grandmother, not a child.

"I think so.  Anja must rest."

"Olek is dead."  Polina's hollowed eyes turned down.  "I would rather have less food than have him dead."

"Yes."

"He died afraid.  He must have.  He hated the shooting."  Polina was very still.  "How terrible."

"Dima says that dying under a phaser is too quick to be painful," Natasha offered.  It was the one consolation she had about the way her parents died.  "Even the fear cannot last long; they usually do not even have time to know what is happening."

"Then that is how I will die, if I can choose it," Polina returned assuredly.

The moment her statement registered, Natasha jumped to her feet.  "You will _not_ die!" she cried, shocking her friend and causing her to jump away.  But Natasha did not care about that.  Her blood was racing and her heart pounded, and she wanted to take Polina, run away and hide somewhere, just for the idea now slashing her nerves and heart.  "I will never let anything happen to you!"

Polina shrugged, nodding.  "Yes, I know."

“You will _never_ speak of dying to me!  Enough have died!  You will _stay_ with me!"

"Of course I will!" Polina apologized, shrinking more into her ill-fitting clothes as she stared up at her friend.  "I did not say I wanted to die, Natasha, only that I did not want it to hurt _if_ it happened."

"But it is _not_ going to happen!"  Grabbing her bucket, Natasha started up the path toward the log tree, forcing Polina to give up her rest and follow her back.  "We stay together, you and me, and we will be safe.  We stay together--always."

For several seconds there was silence, but then Natasha felt Polina's hand touch hers--then take it.  "We are always better when we are together," Polina offered, smiling a little up to her.

Natasha felt her heart again at last--perhaps, even, for the first time in many weeks.  They had been so dull and tired.  "Always."

* * *

Hours later, satisfied by a few bites of ration and four glasses of water, she sat in the far corner of the basement, staring at the portrait of her family.  Her eyes stinging, her lips pressed firmly together, she gazed at their beautiful faces, their clean, flowing clothes, bright eyes and happy smiles....  Life had been so beautiful, so full of gentleness and love, it hurt to see them now.  She gazed at herself, healthy, well-dressed, adored and utterly content.  

She had been that little girl once.

_"I love you, Nataliya.  I will be with you always...."_

Hugging the portrait against herself, she bent over her knees and squeezed her eyes tight.

* * *

Five days later, she led Polina through the level one tunnel branch, through the atrium and toward the Kitaevs' hovel.

"You are not back for more already!" remarked Anna Kalin.  The fourteen year-old lived with two older brothers and kept their hovel and supplies in good order, but she had little else to do.  So, the witty young lady had set herself up as a sort of gatekeeper in the atrium, learning everyone's business and reporting it to everyone else who came through.  While in normal circumstances she would be thought of as a pest, the Seredas lauded her as an excellent check on everyone there, so no one minded telling her what little was happening.  "Anja just left six days ago!  And why did you bring this little girl back when the Kitaevs told you not to?"

"Anja is resting," Polina told her.  "Olek's death hurts her, and Mr. Dolina needed Marko to stay, so Natasha and I were sent."

"Bad timing and very sad," Anna nodded, respectful but obviously not feeling anything similar to what they did.  And perhaps that was a good thing.  One would have to be mourning all of the time in the tunnels to feel for all who were lost.  "We lost five Settlers and nine Guild--and your friend.  Mikhail Anderchuk is still nursing the burns he got hiding in the nine-flight.  Very bad day.  So you come back to make up for what Olek could not get?"

"Anja brought his bag," Natasha said.  "No, the Dolinas send us when they want us to go.  It does not mean we bring anything back."

"Do they beat you when you bring nothing?"

Natasha glared up at the teenager.  "Why do the people here think the Dolinas are so bad?"

Anna shrugged, eyeing them both pointedly.  "Well, they were known for their oddness before, and Lev Dolina is a legend here, though nobody really knows what he used to do."

Natasha looked back when Polina whispered a question.  "When you act strangely, people talk about you more."  She looked at Anna again.  "They are not bad people.  They have been treated as badly as anyone here, and still they take care of us.  Mrs. Dolina is good with my little sister, too.  She loves her."  Her eyes turned down.  "Very much."

"She is lucky, then."

"Yes," Natasha replied, snapping her attention back to where she needed to go.  She started them to the next entrance without saying goodbye, though Anna had opened her mouth to say something else.

As they walked, Natasha's eyes drifted up to the makeshift skylight above them.  Only recently had Natasha learned how that peculiar configuration of level one corridors had been made.  It had not, as she first imagined, been a lovely design always beneath the surface.

"Before, the atrium was open to the air," Mrs. Moroz had explained, leaning back in her usual chair, her wrinkled hands pointing around at the seams and then to the gently colored concrete floor.  "When the building collapsed in the fire, this center was covered by the transparisteel side of the Dorrista Building.  We cleaned out the rubble when they made us come here and opened up the surrounding tunnels to it so we would have light."  Her mouth turned up a little to add, "No one else has sunlight."

"It must have been horrible in the beginning."

"We were still in shock--and we still expected to be rescued."  The elderly lady let out a bitter laugh.  "The cadres made certain we did not imagine _that_ for long.  They told us how they took care of the Federation--and us.  Shameful!  I think we should keep living just to spite them, filthy devils."  She shrugged.  "It leaks when it rains, but Vadim and Les promised us it is stable.  They worked on it in what ways they could."

"Can they build a better access into here?"

Another woman, listening, shook her head.  "Those two were killed in the uprising," she said and whistled harshly between her teeth, as many still did when they remembered the slaughter of the year before.  If the fall of Orvo had not hurt them enough, the cadres' response their attempts to stand up for themselves had truly embittered them.  "Fools!  No phasers, no plan!  They deserved to be cut down for bringing so much danger to the rest of us."

"But they did make this room safe," Mrs. Moroz asserted.  "They were not entirely foolish, only...as proud as they should have been, Nina.  They tried to do good for us."

Months after that conversation, Natasha and Polina gave Mrs. Moroz a wave as they passed her en route to the next corridor, but did not stop to talk.  Letting Polina get to her side, she gestured with her hand.

"Go to the left," Polina deduced.

"And?"

"Get down?"

"Yes!"

"My turn."  Polina twisted her fingers and flicked her hand up.

Natasha's brow furrowed.  "Take the next tunnel."

"No.  Wait for me."

"Do it again."  Polina complied; Natasha nodded.  "Do not change it, okay?"

"Okay."

They continued with a few more gestures they had been working on during their walk that morning until they got to the Kitaev hovel.  There, they almost continued past it, for all their distraction and, more, for not recognizing the space.  And then they noticed that the corridor was filthy, too.  Despite living essentially in a crowded cave with an overpowering stench, the people there had kept things as neat as possible.

But that day, it looked like a bomb had hit it--which was not entirely impossible.  Shelves were overturned and broken and all of the linens had been ripped off the bed.  The mattress itself had a hole in it and was shoved against the far wall.  Instead of in their usual seats, the Kitaevs were on their hands and knees on the floor, wiping up debris and liquids with old cloths.  Then they saw the two who had stopped before their space.  Their expressions were ghostly.

"Why are you here so soon?" Mr. Kitaev whispered.  

"We will leave if--" Natasha started.

"No, no.  I thought something is wrong.  You look...in need."

"Mr. Dolina sent us," Natasha said.  "Nothing else has happened."  Looking around, she noticed that the other hovels nearby were a mess, too.  She looked back at the Kitaevs.  "Are things very bad?"

Mrs. Kitaev nodded.  "There was a raid last night," she said.  "Coalition this time.  A few groups came in, overturned things and took what supplies they could.  Nikon sends his soldiers sometimes to make certain we do not have weapons or make plans to fight them.  But last night..."

"Last night, they were thorough," Mr. Kitaev finished darkly.

"Are the Seredas and Dima well?" Polina asked.  Mr. Sereda had a small supply of phasers and charged theirs and their power cards when they came.

"They all are," Mr. Kitaev said.  "They are very careful--as we all must be.  Someone has suggested that we have made plans with one of the smaller clans.  We must have no proof of this."

"Is it true? Did you?"

"Of course not!" Mrs. Kitaev snapped.  "Silly girl!  How could you think that--"

"Mariya!  She asks a good question," Mr. Kitaev scolded.  "These girls live on the outside."

The lady slumped.  "Yes."  She threw her cloth into the mess and wiped at it.  She looked ready to fall into her work with exhaustion.  "Yes.  They know little--and too much.  God forgive us that we must live like this, and use you little ones as we do."

Natasha put her bag down.  "We will help you clean this," she told her.  "Together, we will make it easier.  When we worked at the farm, we learned to work quickly, and we can do hard work.” Without waiting for a reply, she got a scrap of metal and began to push some small rubble into it.  Polina immediately followed suit.  "Where should I put it, Mr. Kitaev?"

The man's pale face broke into a smile.  "Thank you, girls.  Put the rubbish over there, on the outside corner, and we will take care of that later."

"Throw it in the ducts," Mrs. Kitaev muttered, "and hope it falls on Nikon's head and slices it in half.”

Polina sniggered.  "I will save the heaviest pieces for that!" she returned and grabbed a blanket to fold.  There were phaser holes in it, but she said nothing about them, only gave Natasha a meaningful look.

Natasha nodded and bent to sweep up another load.  "Is Nikon always making trouble for the people who live in the tunnels?"

"Yes," Mr. Kitaev said, "and you must avoid him, always.  He sends people with orders, but he has come up the levels himself once or twice.  If you see a tall, slim soldier with thin, black eyes and white hair, you must run and hide as quickly as you can, before he sees you."

Natasha stilled.  "White hair--and thin, black eyes? And he is not old?"

"Yes.  He is not much older than I am, not yet thirty."

"Has he always been the leader?"

"No, he was one of the officers until..."  Mr. Kitaev paused for a moment then finished, "until he stole the leadership from Carlston, who was not a good man, but not cruel.  Nor are the other leaders, Jarvis and Tanner.  They use us as they please, but they do not make an effort to hurt us.  --This is difficult to explain to you girls.  How can you understand that some people are simply cruel?"

"But I do," Natasha said.  "I do know what evil is, because Nikon was the one who killed the people in the East Province.  I saw him, the white haired man...."

And she saw him then, too, walking up to her parents.  The other soldier said something.  But just as her father tried to respond, the white haired man raised his weapon and shot him, and then her mother...because he could, and because he wanted to.  He kicked their bodies then looked at the house.  And Natasha ran--grabbed the wagon and ran to the Dolinas'....

A year and a half later, Natasha sprang to her feet and took a few steps away.  Then she turned back and glared at the people who stared back at her, both curious and horrified at her intelligence.  "I saw him kill Mama and Tato," she breathed.  "They went to him in peace and the white-haired man killed Tato, and then Mama.  I watched."

Tears started in Mrs. Kitaev's eyes as she heard it.  "Oh my sweet little Nataliya, I am so sorry."

Natasha's blood instantly rushed.  "No!  Do not feel sorry for me!"

"How can I not be sorry you have seen so much? You should never have seen that--at _any_ age, much less a small child.  Your parents would never have wished it.  That so many others have suffered the same makes me no less sorry for you."

Natasha's eyes turned down, and the wash of those moments filed through her again, stabbing her heart and screaming in her ears as though it was happening right there.  She shuddered, feeling the urge to run away, to run hard, away to the Dolinas'--to safety, to shelter....

But then she saw Mrs. Kitaev's sympathetic face again, and the mess of a hovel, and the dingy walls surrounding those thin, hurt people.  Natasha scolded herself silently for having spoken of her parents to them.

But now she knew the name of the man who had taken them away.  Now the devil had a name.

"He is a truly bad man, Natasha," Mr. Kitaev said.  "So when you see him, you will run."

Natasha nodded, though running was the last thing on her mind just then.

She knew the name of the man who had killed her parents.

_"Tell me what you want, girl!"_

_"Yes, I want to live!  I want to live, Mr. Dolina!"_

_"Then look them in the eyes and let them know who you are--and then you kill before they kill you!"_

She wanted to find Nikon and kill him.

She wanted to kill him with the garrote, then watch him die with her hands around his neck.  And she did not care if it was wrong.  She did not care if she would be stained.  She wanted him to die for all he had done, to them all.

Natasha flinched and jerked away when she felt a hand touch her.

"Are you well, Natasha?" Mr. Kitaev asked.

"Yes," she responded and bent to pick up the trash.

As darkness began to fall outside--they could tell by the shadows reaching into the corridor from the atrium--the Kitaevs' space was clean.  Coming back from their daily trip to see the sun, Mr. Kitaev pulled in a bin to shove all the trash into, and he dumped it in the rear distribution tubes for lack of anywhere else to go with it.  Mr. Sereda had come with wire to string together the broken shelf, and Mrs. Zlenko came to lend Mrs. Kitaev a handheld textile regenerator, freshly charged by one of the boys who could get down to level nine and recharge the power card it took.

As they all worked, Natasha and Polina sat together nibbling on some protein nuggets the Kitaevs insisted they take, though all of their other supplies had been taken by the cadres.  "You are thinner than we are!" Mrs. Kitaev had told them and demanded they obey.  They did, but every minute or so, Natasha looked at the exit to the tunnels.  

"None of our runners are getting anything," Mr. Sereda said aloud to no one specifically between grunts of exertion.  The shelf had looked strong, but the damage was severe.  "The crossfire is tricky, Dima says."

"There is no way to know what it will be today, after this raid," Mr. Kitaev said.  "They are paranoid."

Natasha had a feeling they were trying to keep them from going to the Heights.  They always tried to dissuade her, and one time had tried to order her not to go.  This time, they were still upset by the raid, so they had not called Dima or Evgeny, or even suggested they get out before dark fell, blacking out a good portion of the upper tunnels.

Her foot tapped, and she looked over at Polina's position.  She was almost finished.

Natasha leaned over.  "When you are finished, come with me."

Polina nodded, eyeing their hosts then her friend again.  "What about those gangs they talk about? They said they come out at night, but it is always night, there."

"We need food," Natasha replied simply.  "We will be silent."

And silent they were when they set their dishes down and slipped off of the bench Mr. Kitaev had pulled out for them while the adults continued making the repairs.  Minutes later, they were slipping through the junction access into the cross tunnel that led them under the city.  When the third hatch closed behind them, Natasha felt her pulse speed.  It was darker than it had ever been there.  Not even emergency light exposed the place, but only a few rows of green ceiling tracks dotted the pitch areas, splitting toward the Coalition stronghold to the right.  The access to the Heights cut to the left.

"I am frightened, Natasha," Polina whispered in Natasha ear.  "We should go back."

"I should not have brought you," Natasha admitted, "but I cannot go alone.  You must never go alone.  Stay with me and keep your eyes open and be silent.  I will not let you be hurt."  With that, she sped them toward the next junction.

Some time later, they scrambled onto the smooth, dusky marble of the Heights.  But before either of them could think to be relieved, Natasha jerked back against the wall, throwing out an arm to keep Polina from going forward.  

Instead of the phaser-etched columns, they were staring at the brown-clad ankles of a cadre officer.  

Natasha's eyes drew up his frame to focus on his arm bands.  

_"...never go near a solider with brown and gold arm bands.  They hate us more than any of the others."_

Coalition.

She sank back as flat as she could.  "Guard," she mouthed to Polina, who nodded, withholding her shivers.  She had never been to the Heights yet, and while not a firefight, a clan soldier was one of the worst things that could have introduced her to it.  Natasha turned to look out of the access hole again, gesturing behind her.  She felt Polina touch her palm.  Her hand sank into her pocket and she waited.

There was no one else in the platform area.  A solitary patrol, the man was alone and watching, it seemed, the clouds roll in over the setting sun.  At his leg was a supply box.

He had probably just come from the replicators and was waiting for his replacement.  Dima and Gregor had explained how they worked and how to get around them.

Natasha lifted her arm to point the way back down to Polina, who nodded and slid back.

Her boot hook scraped the marble.

The guard turned around and Natasha immediately saw his face light up in the tracklight above.  He was older than the Kitaevs but not very old, and his eyes were narrow as they peered down at her.  

_...the clans had always hated the free thinking people here and would have all the people speaking against them dead--and they_ have _us all dead, save us few.  Give them no more satisfaction.  Give the evil ones nothing!  Be strong!"_

Natasha simply stared back as Polina shook softly behind her.

"We must go," she whispered shakily.  "Please, Natasha, take me back to the Kitaevs."

Natasha flicked her free hand.  _Silence!_

To her surprise, the patrol only touched his weapon.  He at first only seemed to be curious about what the urchins were doing there.  She glanced down at his box then back at him.  Would he not see that she was very thin and would want something to eat? Would he not already know why she would come to that dangerous place? She did not move a muscle, terrified, and yet curious, too.  Would he be merciful? Could she fool him into thinking she was an innocent?

When she moved her hand in her pocket, the Patrol's brow furrowed.  "Take your hand out of your pocket, kid," he warned, "right now--and get against the wall, over there.  Your little friend, too."  

Natasha's breath stopped.

"Don't you understand me?"  

She jerked a nod.

"Do as I say, then.  Now."

As she rose to her feet, her back still pressed to the wall, Natasha's world shrank, and all she could see was what was right before her, and all she could hear was but what was around her.  This was focus, she told herself, and forced herself not to lose it despite the terror lurking, growing...

He tapped a badge on his shoulder and it beeped.  He leaned his head toward it....

_"They will not steal our souls, Nata.  They cannot steal what we will never give them."_

_"Even when they say bad things?"_

_"Their bad words disappear in the air.  Our good words and good deeds are immortal."_

_"Because we must be the good words, and we must show others what good is in our deeds."_

...and his hand slid down his phaser to ready it as his mouth opened to speak into the thing--a communicator.

Natasha pulled the old phaser out of her pocket, focused, aimed and fired.

The man sucked a breath, shocked in a split second to have been attacked.  But then he fell to the ground in a slump.

Just as her parents had.

Just as Olek had.

Just as so many of her people had.

Natasha could not breathe for what felt like a minute, and she only half understood what she had just done at first, even though she completely understood what the man now was.  Dead.  At last, she had the mind to jerk her hand at Polina.  "Get the box!  I will get the weapon!"  

Immediately, Polina dashed out and dragged the box back into the hole like a crab taking its prey into the sand.  

"Report!" came a voice from the patrol's shoulder.

Natasha froze.

_"Leave nothing behind you!  Never let them see your trail!"_

Going up to the dead body, she took his phaser, backed up and shot him again and again, until there was nothing left.  Her hands were shaking so terribly by then, she almost could not put the phaser in her bag.  But at last, she was done, and she got to her hands and knees and followed Polina back into the access hole.

She hardly noticed the stink that time.  All she knew was the trembling and the want to run--run hard and fast, away to anywhere.

But all she could do was slide, and feel a wild sense of panic.

...Panic.  She would be found out.  Someone would know and they would come for her.  Someone would find the box and know a Settler had done it.  They would come and kill them all because she could not wait to go to the Heights with someone better at it than she was.  She had been stupid and almost got them both killed, and now she had risked what was left of her people.

Her heart started pounding harder, and she jerked her head around in the darkness, looking for the hazy gleams of wrist lights.  Far in the distance, she heard voices and she shuddered.  Those were searchers of a different kind.  When they got to a landing, she grabbed Polina's arm and got close to her ear.

"We cannot keep this box!" she whispered and set them even faster down the slope and into the sewer.

Once there, they emptied the contents of the supply box into their bags and threw the box into the deep waste.  Natasha took out her little phaser and blasted it.  It melted in the sludge and slipped into the blackest recess of the tube.  That done, they took the cross-junction and began the gradual descent.  Her trembling fingers barely gripped the support brackets, but she managed to pull herself out of the successive tubes and help Polina behind her without falling until they got to level three.

The level three corridors made the level one hovels look welcoming.  A combination of Settler and Guild space, there was no access to outdoor light, but a steady, white light that cast a grey haze over everything.  The floor was black with soot and tracked in grease that stubbornly stained errant children and anyone unfortunate enough to be shoved to the ground.  Though that level boasted a large, colorfully tiled space that used to be a tourist lounge and enviable lavatories and water distribution stations, level three denizens generally stayed close to the hovels, likewise notched into the opened-up shafts surrounding the space, guarding what they had--and more strictly just then, too, for having been raided just the other day.

Natasha looked at the people there when she could see them.  They were not starving, but their unblinking gazes spoke of horrors that she and Polina did not have to live with every day.  They had heard the stories by then, of course: cautionary tales of kidnappings, attacks and murders--and worse.  Those people, living in the crossfire, had seen far more of it.

Natasha had seen murder, too.  And now she had committed it.

_"The body is but a tool.  It knows nothing.  The soul is forever."_

Her heart felt heavier than the rest of her body.

_"Regret nothing!  Do what you must do and move on!"_

Natasha clutched her bag and led them to the tube ladder that led to level one.  She looked at Polina.  "Please do not tell them what I did," she said.

Polina nodded and reached out for her friend's hand.  "You were very brave, Natasha," she said.  "And now look at all we have!  The Dolinas will be so happy with us!"

"The Kitaevs and the people they help are hungry, too," Natasha reminded her.

Polina bit her lip.  "How much must we give them?"

Natasha sighed.  Polina was always afraid of being punished by the Dolinas.  "Come!  The ladder is here!"

Several minutes later, they slipped back into the Kitaevs' space.  The Saredas, Dima and Mina Polachek were there, picking through the pitiful box of parts the girls had collected from the floor earlier.  Catching those same girls in their eyes, the adults' faces morphed into disapproval, but Natasha only shrugged.  The Dolinas bore far harsher glances, after all, with words to follow.  The tunnel people in all their despair and resentment were still gentle and sweet even in their hardest moments.

And their shelves were empty now, too--shelves that had always been open to them when they came.  Not all of the Settlers were kind or in the position to give--and some were downright territorial for good reason, which was why everyone in need came to the Kitaevs or the Saredas.  They were respectable people who did their best for all their neighbors.  And yet, they had been attacked and robbed as though all their good had been wrong.

_Our good words and good deeds are immortal."_

She was still trembling inside, so she did not explain herself.  Instead, she simply unshouldered her tightly stuffed bag and shook the contents onto the bed.  "Polina," she said and, after a meaningful look her way, the girl obediently emptied her bag, too.  The pile collapsed a little, spreading across the dirty coverlet.

The group sucked a collective breath.

"We must bring enough to feed us until we can get more," Natasha told them quietly.  "But the rest is for you and the others here."

Mrs. Kitaev had been staring gape-mouthed at the girls, but finally came around her chair and embraced them.  "You have done a very good thing today!" she cried.  "You should _not_ have gone out without a spotter--and certainly, Natasha, you should not have taken Polina into the tunnels!  But you have helped so many, I can hardly think...  Oh, Symon, look at what these little girls have done!"

Mr. Sereda was eyeing them curiously, though, and, coming around to the end of the bed, he put the phaser and the power cards back into the bag.  "Those cannot stay here," he stated.

"We will have good use for them," Natasha said.  "Mr. Dolina can charge the heater."

"Where did you get all of this?" Dima finally asked.  He was scowling at the pile that Mr. Kitaev was quickly organizing.  "You could not have replicated this much."

"We stole a box," Natasha answered.  "We destroyed it but took what was inside."

"It was just sitting there?" he said dubiously.

"The man guarding it went to do something else," Polina explained, “and so Natasha took it.”

Feeling a gush of gratitude mix with her anxiety, Natasha sat on the bench she and Polina had been sitting on before.  "We will come back in ten days if we have enough."

"I will see that you have more than that," Mr. Kitaev said warmly, though his eyes searched her, too.  Natasha looked away.

* * *

The next morning, the Dolinas were happier than she had seen them in some time.  

"Power cards!" Mr. Dolina lauded, and actually squeezed Polina in his arm.  The girl's eyes flew open at the endearment.  "We will fit these to the system today.  They look universal.  --And this phaser pistol!  Very good!  It has nearly a full charge."

"You were very lucky!" Marko said, staring at the weapon.  "May I try it, Mr. Dolina?"

"Yes, boy.  Just do not shoot it!  I want the charge reserved."

Marko was gone a moment later into the yard with the phaser.

"Dehydrated food cubes," Anja said breathlessly.  "Shredded beef, noodles, oats..."

Mrs. Dolina sighed.  "Not as nutritious, but it will be good not to eat a ration bar for a while."

"We have those, too."

"Those we will save, then.  --And the milk tablets are for Irisha.  Five hundred, it looks like!  Natasha, Polina, you did very well!"

"Of course she will take those," Anja agreed, though a bit grudgingly.  She went back to helping sort the remainder.

Natasha watched their fingers divide and sort the treasures.  Her body felt numb.

No one asked how they had gotten them despite the restrictions.  No one cared.  They were going to eat.  They would be warm.  They would be better protected.

_”"Because we must be the good words, and we must show others what good is in our deeds."_

Still against the wall as cheer continued and Mr. Dolina slipped back into the utility room, Natasha inched along until she was near the basement door.  Once there, she turned onto the stairs and stepped silently into the basement.  There, she crossed left and to her corner, crawled into her blankets and curled into a ball, clutching a corner of her mother's shawl tightly against her chest as she screwed her eyes shut.

She saw the man slumped to the ground, and her phaser lowering.

Her eyes opened.  Her heart was hammering again.

She turned over.

Tosha sat in the corner, alone, filthy and bedraggled.  Natasha stared at the wretched little thing for a minute then reached out to pull it under the covers with her.  Hugging it close, too, she shut her eyes again.

 _"How can I not be sorry you have seen so much? You should never have seen that--at_ any _age, much less a small child,"_ came Mrs. Kitaev's soft voice, dulcet in her ringing ears,

It was too late for that, now, impossible to change and impossible to regret on the soldier's part.  His death would help so many.  His death would help keep people alive that winter.  One death to keep so many fed and safe.  How could she regret that?

_"Your parents would never have wished it."_

It was too late for that, too.  How she would always wish they were there to keep her from such terrible things as she had seen and done!  But they were not there, and they never would be.  The man she had killed worked for those who made that so.

It was done.  She had to move on and do the next thing she needed to do.

She bent her face into Tosha's knotted locks.  She did not sleep for a long time, but eventually, she could not help herself anymore.

* * *

Their joy was, as so often was the case, short-lived.  The restrictions at the Heights tightened as the crossfire lit up every corner of the topside, retaliation of another retaliation, until there was nothing but fighting in all of the battle areas.  Marko and Anja could never get as "lucky" as Natasha had been.  

The supplies dwindled, and the rations decreased.  The coming of winter raised the anxiety level at the Dolinas' house, for all they had to look forward to.  It would get cold soon.  They needed power and food, for the blackened land would offer them little if any when the rest of the life there perished with the season.

Anja and Natasha did manage to access the Heights with a man named Miron.  He was an older man registered as a Settler but living with the Guild.  He met the girls on their way through the tunnels and showed them a shorter route for a price--two thirds of their retrieval.  Though they did not like it, they had already gone far out of their way and wanted only to get back to level one.  

Upon leaving the Heights and skirting a few cadre patrols, he took more than that.  Anja did not dare argue with him.  Nor did Natasha, who got a bad feeling when she met the man, and only wanted to be away from him.

They did not tell anyone of their mistake.  They just wanted to be away from the tunnels, though what waited for them at the Dolinas' was hardly more pleasant.

* * *

"You took it!" Marko shouted.  "You took my wrench!"

"You do not get to call me a thief!" Natasha snapped back, balling up her fist.  Marko was bigger, but she feared no one and cared nothing about reprisals.

Before Marko could loom over her, the girl took the initiative.  Moving up quickly, she struck him in the side of the nose with her small fist, then followed it up with a sweep of his legs.  It didn't knock him over, but he was startled enough that she could jump on him and push him down to the ground.  He tried to hit her back, but she caught his arm and bit into it, making him yell.  Mr. Dolina had taught her well.

"I steal from soldiers, not you!" she spat, wiping off her mouth then hitting the boy again.  He flung her off and ran to wash him arm.  "Never call me a liar again!" she finished and swung back around.

Anja looked angry with her, but Natasha did not bother to justify herself or make Anja feel better.  Marko would think twice before calling her names, and so the problem was gone.  So, she went back to the parts pile the rest of them had been cleaning and moved next to Polina, who was bent over a phaser casing.  

"Give it to me," she told her; a moment later, she was grasping her wedge with her thin, dirty fingers and maneuvering it into the access panel.  She didn't understand all the parts and how they worked, but she did know generally where they should be and why.

"What do we have?" said Mr. Dolina just as Natasha popped open her phaser casing.  She held it up for Mr. Dolina without explanation.  "Good!" he lauded, clapping her bony shoulder.  "We might be able to fix it--and then you can keep it with you always.  This is a nice model that will fit your hand."

"Polina found it," Natasha told him.

"Polina shoots poorly," he dismissed.  "We will find an easier one for her."

Natasha looked at her friend, but Polina just shook her head and got back to work.  She understood.  They all understood.  They were lucky to have anything at all.  There was nothing to complain about.

"You will go to the Heights again," Mr. Dolina ordered them and he circled the table.  "We are almost out of rations."

"The Kitaevs try to keep us away because of the fighting," Polina told him.

"You will go or you will stay with the Kitaevs for good," replied the man sternly.  "My wife means nothing when she says it--but I do.  The winter is coming.  We have power, yes, but we must have something to store.  You will try for it or you will not come back."

Natasha bumped her friend's arm and gave her a reassuring blink.  "We go together, Polina," she said.

Polina nodded back, but she did not smile.  "Always better."

* * *

_...a wave on the ground, green ripples_  
 _And white stars among drops of blood._  
 _What is this grave of winter here, risen into the sky?_  
 _I cannot look, for I am shamed to look_  
 _At that which gives far more than I ever will,_  
 _At that which is far stronger than I ever will be:_  
 _The coming of the seasons_  
 _The passing of generations_  
 _Leaving all we know_  
 _To find...._

"Natasha!  Girl, come!  We need water!"

_I bear no strength, and yet I claim_  
 _More power than nature blesses me_  
 _Among the stars and blood...._

"Now, girl!"

Natasha gave up the little PADD and locked it away in the spacesafe box.

"Are you dead down there?"

Even on the second call, she did not bother to answer Mrs. Dolina, though she was thankful for some occupation.  With Polina running to Orvo with Marko, there was even less to do than usual.  Running down to the stream would occupy her for at least an hour--two if she came back over the hills.

What she found in the kitchen waiting for her, however, made her forget the potential diversion.  Along with the water jugs was a large basket and, wearing her old sweater and leggings, her little sister.  Her short hair was tied back in a scarf, bringing out her big eyes, tawny skin and full mouth, and Natasha had to take a little breath, as she always did, for the likeness she bore to their mother.

Mrs. Dolina gave Irisha a pat on the head.  "You take your sister to the stream," she said to Natasha in Standard.  "She's going to pick kelka weed.  She knows what it is and what to do.  She's old enough now to do some chores and follow you around, and you should spend time with her, now, too."

Natasha blinked at that.  Indeed, it had been a few months since she had bothered to even speak to Irisha, which could not have been a good thing.  But more surprising was that Mrs. Dolina was making her come away from the relative safety of the house.  She normally loomed over Irisha like an old hen.  That she was being so relatively cheerful about it gave the older girl pause, too.

Mrs. Dolina hardly noticed Natasha's caution, but added, "Keep a good eye on her and make sure she doesn't get wet!"

Natasha looked down at Irisha, who merely returned her stare.  "Yes, Mrs. Dolina."  Natasha grabbed the jugs, the rod and a phaser and went out of the door.  Behind her, she heard Mrs. Dolina tell Irisha to follow and be good.  Irisha was trotting along not long afterward, her basket swinging from her little arm.

Her eyes on the sky or on the path before them, Natasha said very little to Irisha along the way, except to tell her where to go.  Irisha followed along, complaining only when she couldn't get over a log.  "It's too big!" she said.

Natasha came back and hauled her over.  "You learn go over later," she said.

"Liza says you're my sister," she then said, making Natasha turn around.  "Are you?"

"Yes!"

"You don't talk like I do."

" _You_ talk like them," Natasha replied, adding, "I talk like Settler.  That is what we are."

"That's what Liza says.  What does 'Settler' mean?"

"Our people from Earth," Natasha told her, "mostly from place in Ukraine, called Kovalivka.  We speak Unified, and keep old ways...  We did before.  You were baby."

"You don't look like me."

"Tato say you look like Mama, and I look like _his_ mama."  Natasha glanced back.  "You still look like Mama."

Irisha scrunched up her nose at the thought.  "Were they nice?"

Now, Natasha felt her chest tighten.  She did not like where the conversation was going already, though she did feel the little girl should know about her family--her _real_ family, not that woman who guarded her like a hawk and obviously said nothing of the ways things had been.  But how could Natasha say _enough_ about what their parents were like, in the tongue the girl had learned? How could she express a gram of their importance to her, when Irisha knew nothing? "Yes, they were...very good," she said at last, and brokenly.  "They love us more than life, they did love, so much."

Irisha jogged a little to catch up with Natasha now, who was walking very quickly.  "Why did they give us up, then?"

"Give up?!" Natasha swung around, her sadness switching easily to anger.  "I bring you to Dolinas when soldiers kill them and burn our home.  Mama sent me with you so we are safe!  They never give us up!  Never!"

Irisha backed up at her big sister's retort, and this satisfied Natasha for the moment.  There would be no more stupid questions to listen to.  They could continue in silence.  Turning, Natasha started them for the stream again, stomping in the soft mud at the thought of Mrs. Dolina suggesting that they had been abandoned.  Maybe Irisha was not understanding the older woman's explanations, or her sister was saying it badly, but Natasha was angry, anyway.

"Slow down!" the girl cried out from behind her.

"Be faster!" Natasha responded, but she did ease her pace a little.  She remembered their mother leaning over a cheerful, fat baby, kissing her toes and laughing.  Natasha remembered laughing, too, as she watched, in her warm, soft clothes and everything beautiful around them.  The baby had been so funny when Mama played with her....

Until she fell onto the ground by her husband, her long hair floating down behind her...

_"I love you Nataliya..."_

She shuddered inside, and felt her hands balling up, her eyes sting dangerously...

Irisha caught up, and Natasha gave her a gentler look.  "Mama and Tato love us, Irisha," she repeated.  "They die making us safe."  Then she pointed to a knoll of grass.  "Flowers and greens there.  I get water over hill.  Stay close, or Mrs. Dolina will be angry."

"Liza never gets angry at _me_!" Irisha hailed as she hopped up the knoll.

She peered askance at the girl as she pranced up the knoll.  "When you start working, she will be very angry when you do wrong things."  Irisha said something else, but Natasha ignored it, moving to fill the small jugs that she had brought.  The water gurgled over the rocks and ran freely into the jugs to the top.  Natasha filled all four, capping them with quickly chilling fingers.

She sighed.  The talk of her parents reminded her not only of them, but of the antigrav wagon.  It had broken after the first winter at the farm.  They had never found the parts to repair it.  So instead, they carried the water _"like people had for thousands of years,"_ as Mr. Dolina had said when he had fashioned a long bar turned up at the end.  _"Children smaller than Polina could carry what they needed without complaint!"_

Hooking the jugs on it, she rolled her shoulders a little but did not sigh again.  She was used to the trip, now.

She did, however, frown at her hands.  Thin and callused, the edges of her nails were stained nearly black.  She thought about her Aunt Tatyana, with her fair, smooth hands as they flitted across the piano keys or turned fine, white string into delicate circles.  She was so perfectly groomed and never at risk of injury....

Winter had been coming on very slowly that year, sparing the power cards.  But that meant that they all had spent a lot more time outside, in the sunlight, pulling apart equipment that they might use or rebuild.  Anja, always very good at fixing the pieces around the house, had helped Mr. Dolina rebuild a generator with a portion of it over the summer, bringing heat into the basement.  Over the autumn, they had worked on small comm units for the people in the tunnels for all their inability to fix his main unit.  But the Dolinas were far less insistent that they trade fairly for the pieces than they were about going to the Heights, despite how difficult the clans were making it.

 _"I do not think that will be possible again,"_ Mr. Dolina had said as yet another hot morning greeted them a month ago.  Looking up at the moons, hanging lazily on the hazy horizon, he'd finished, _"The cadres have been busy with themselves for a while.  They will not always be."_

Natasha moved to the small pool farther down the stream and bent to wash her face.  Even in the still water, the water was ice cold, telling the girl that it must be winter somewhere on that world.  Still, it was a relief to feel it on her filthy skin.  Pulling a cloth from her pocket, she wet it, squeezed out the dirt and continued to wash, scrubbing hard.  Then she took a bracing breath and dipped her head into the water.

"Ahh!" she breathed as her short hair dripped quickly under her jacket and shirt.  Leaning over again, she gave her head a thorough scrub, too, then dipped it quickly a third time.  Rubbing it that time with the cloth, she got the worst of the wet off and fluffed it out for the sun to find.

She looked back.  Irisha was still on the hill, filling her basket with that horrible plant they had been cooking since their ration numbers told them they had only five days' worth left.  She had time.

Turning to squeeze out her cloth, Natasha looked into the water.  What greeted her was not surprising, the same thin, wide-eyed creature she knew, with the addition of spiky hair just starting to dry.  She sat back on her heels and leaned back to feel the sun, to hear the air, barely rustling, her sister, chattering softly to herself....

And a patrol ship.

Instantly alert and turning to get on her hands and knees, Natasha hissed at her sister, "Silence!"  Surprised by the command, Irisha stopped.

Natasha waited, her hand in the air, holding their pause.

It was not close, but she knew the sound, how fast they could move, and she knew how to know it.  Remaining motionless, not breathing, for another few seconds, she knew it had turned.  It was approaching...and gaining speed.  A pause, then another burst.  A sensor raid.

"Irisha!" she called, springing to her feet.  Darting over the hill, she grabbed her sister, toppling the girl's basket down the hill as she yanked the girl toward the closest bush even as she looked for rocks to get under.  But those were far to the east, the ones they could get underneath.  There was only the scraggly bushes and the house to go to.

"You spilled all my flowers!" the little girl protested.  

"Zatkajsia!" Natasha hissed, shoving her under the flowery boughs.  "Otrymaty kvity piznishe!"

"I'm going to tell--"

"Zatkajsia!"  When Irisha tried to speak again, Natasha put her cold hand over her mouth.  "Slukhaj!  -- _Listen_!"

The buzzing turned into a hum, and the steady hum turned into a rumble, vibrating the ground.  Slowly, it grew until the craft was nearly overhead.  Only then did then the oval shape appear, dark grey against the pale sky and moving deliberately over the countryside--a sweep.  A wide, blue beam fell over the land, over the rocks just south of their position, and then across the stream.  Irisha's eyes went wide, and her body shook.  

"Remember when they fire on farm?" Natasha asked her.  Irisha nodded.  "Same ships.  Zatkajsia!  Quiet!"  She took her hand off Irisha's mouth.  "Stay.  I keep you safe."

"Will they hurt us?" the girl whispered.

"Da!"

"I want to go home," Irisha whispered.

"Ne zaraz."

"What?"

"Not now!  Shush!"

She peered out toward the stream, where she had left the water jugs and rod.  Would the ships see their things and investigate, send their wide sensor to find them? She could do nothing about being scanned or transported.  On that, she thought quickly.  If the ship descended and turned more toward them, she could only try to take Irisha and run hard to the nearest ridge and get into the rag forest there.  It could take them hours to get back to the house, then, but they would be safer than staying there.

The patrol paused then pivoted north, toward the farm.  The scanning beam seemed to be going directly toward the farm.  Would they fire upon it this time? 

Natasha remained motionless, waiting with her little sister's trembling form pinned beneath her.  For minutes, she kept them like that, watching for every switch, for every tilt...

As she plotted and planned and let her nerves prick usefully up, she saw to her great relief the patrol ship rise, turn and head around to the west, away from the Dolinas' house and then, finally, away.  

Natasha let out her breath and let Irisha go from beneath the bush.  The girl shot out as if released from a spring.  Then she crawled out, too, staring at what now was a dark blot in the sky.  The ship still moved slowly, looking for something particularly, Natasha guessed.  But it remained on a course away from them, which was all she cared}about at the moment, though she did harbor some appropriate fear of the craft suddenly returning.  But that she would handle if they came to that.  For the moment, she would remain alert.

"You have to help me get my basket filled again."

"Ni.  You get basket."

"But you spilled it."

"Ja budu zbyraty kvity; ty prynesy vody," she said quietly, her gaze still half on the sky.

"What?"

"Okay.  I pick up flowers," she said as she collected her water buckets.  Her lips turned up as she began to pull at a tuft of weed onions in earnest.  To her equal disgust and pleasure, the bulbs came out with the greens in a big lump.  " _You_ get water."

"It's too heavy!"

"Yes.  That is real work."

Irisha grumbled and stomped back to the hill.  Natasha did not look at her again until she was finished collecting what she needed.  Looking at Irisha's refilled basket, she dropped the onions on top and loaded up the water.

They got back not much later than they were expected.  The little girl burst into the door and hugged Mrs. Dolina around the legs.  Natasha simply unloaded the jugs, setting one on the sink and the carrying bar in the corner.

"Liza, Natasha pushed me down and spilled my flowers!" Irisha cried.  "I got mud on my clothes, and I was scared!"

Mrs. Dolina turned a warning glare Natasha's way, but Natasha held her ground.  "A patrol ship flew overhead," she explained, gladly reverting to her own tongue.  "I pushed Irisha under a burrow bush and hid us until it left the area.  It was looking for something, scanning the ground.  Then it moved north."

"Yes, we saw the patrol scan from here," Mrs. Dolina replied and looked down at Irisha.  "Your sister did the right thing.  You must listen to her when patrols are near.  They're very dangerous, and she knows how to hide.  Now, let's see your basket!"

Natasha was astonished, and hardly hid it.  No reprimand for the messy clothing? No correction for pushing Irisha? Believing her without question? Even when Natasha had been blameless, Mrs. Dolina admonished her, and had boxed her ear more than a few times when she _had_ erred.  It was very surprising, indeed, but she hurried the last two jugs to the cellar before Mrs. Dolina could change her mind about that.

Polina would never believe it when she told her.

* * *

In the continuing pall of time and relative inactivity, Natasha had made herself what even Mrs. Dolina called "a hell of a shot."  She was still working with the garrote and learning how to throw and electrify tripwire with small charges.  Whenever she thought Mr. Dolina had run out of things to teach her about disabling people, he came up with another method.  With her trips to the tunnels becoming more frequent, her runs through the tunnels more common, Natasha came to look forward to each terrible lesson.

Once how she had feared him, and now she held out her hands before herself, supporting the phaser in her small fingers until she found her focus.  Then she could let her right hand down.  She often shot with her left hand, to keep her innately dominant hand free to work.  She could do about anything with both hands now.

"Good," Mr. Dolina said from behind her, reaching to bump her wrist.  Immediately, she straightened it.  "Are you hurt?" he asked, gesturing at a large bruise on her hand.  

"It hurts a little, but it is not bad."  She had gotten it caught in a slot on her way back from a level six charging station Dima and Katerina had shown her on her last trip to Orvo.

"Tell me if it the pain becomes worse."

"Why?"

"Because you might have a problem."

She nodded and took aim again.

"Shoot the white pole!" he suddenly barked.

Natasha's arm angled out to the side and she put a scar in the fence pole instead of the original target.

"Excellent!  Find your foe before they see you and act before they can think to!"

"Yes, sir."

"Never fear the cowards who did this to us, to your parents, our people," he went on.  "Never fear ending their wretchedness."

"I am not afraid to kill them," she whispered.  "I only do not want to."

"That is a good thought.  But when you face that moment, Natasha---"

"I have, Mr. Dolina.  And I followed the steps you taught me."

He was silent at first, and then he gazed down at her.  "You did? Already?"

Natasha peered out among the various targets he had put up.  She felt terribly heavy with the confession fresh on her tongue, but her arm held steady.  "Yes."

She lowered her head to get a better view.  It was then she felt his large hand touch her shoulder.  She jerked at first, but it remained firm there for some time; then at last he gave her a squeeze.

"You did not tell us this."

"I did not want to talk about it."

"Do you regret it?"

"No.  The guard would have taken Polina and me.  His supply bag fed us well.  I have no regret, only...  I did not want to kill."

"You did not hurt him.  Your weapon finished him quickly and brought you back to us.  That is very important, Natasha.  That man? He would have killed you and thought you just another Settler waste taken care of."

"Yes."

"The body remembers nothing, Natasha.  It is only a container.  The soul is forever.  Do not focus on his death, but on what lives now because of it."

"I have."

"Good girl.  You will get better at it with experience, and I have no doubt you will have more experience.  --But do not think about it!  Live now, in the present, always.  Now is all you have, all you can control."

"Yes, sir."

Again, Mr. Dolina squeezed her shoulder once more then let his hand fall away.

"Live now, Natasha.  Make now your most important moment.  Now: Show me your target list, Natasha, and be ready to take it on my command.  Focus!"

"Yes!"

* * *

The next few weeks were punctuated by more patrols, almost a constant rumble in the hills beyond the Dolinas' farm in tandem with strong winds, which blew everything not attached to the ground into brown and black whirls.  Everyone who went to the tunnels came back with hardly anything and caked with soot and dirt.  After her last trip to and back, Natasha spent an hour at the river washing out her eyes and scrubbing her stained skin.

Soon, their rations were gone again, and the highly unseasonal heat grew across the countryside.  If it got any hotter and no wetter, Mr. Dolina told them, what little greenery they had would die, and they would have to search the west hills for food.  Mr. Dolina told them to charge the phasers when they went to the tunnels so that he could hunt for what little game remained.  He told Marko to prepare to come with him.

Mrs. Dolina had not bothered to try planting anything with what few seeds she had left.  The earth had been too badly damaged around them, and she could not watch out for pests where she _could_ make something grow, so she found little use in trying.  The strange part about that was that she seemed not to care so much anymore.  She had stopped complaining, and no longer looked angry.  She did not even yell at them, but let them do as they pleased as she cooked the same weed and wild onion stews over and over again.  She never pressed them to eat it, but took her portion, got Irisha to take hers then cleaned and went to bed.

Natasha thought it all very odd and said so to Polina, but Polina was too relieved that Mrs. Dolina was leaving her alone to care if it was unusual.  She took every advantage of Mrs. Dolina's relative kindness, too, by resting in the kitchen with a glass of cool water or fiddling with the comm in the other room.  She even played with Irisha one day, making noise that usually would not be tolerable to the old woman.  Meanwhile, Mrs. Dolina had written several more letters to Mrs. Wengel in the tunnels.  It was the only thing she seemed to care about, anymore, making certain they would be taken and that they had been received.

Watching from the door of the back of the house, Natasha knew that there had been more time than she pleased to watch all of these variables play out.  Of course even Mrs. Dolina would see the uselessness in trying too hard there, and of course Polina would be happy not to be pushed around for just a day, much less a month.  Returning to the tables outside, where Anja and Marko were picking aimlessly at scraps that would build nothing, leftovers from Mrs. Zlenko's donations.  Mr. Dolina had never managed to fix the comm and talk to Mrs. Zlenko and the others.  Joining the others at the table, Natasha's gaze drifted over to the old man, who was back in his spot, sitting on a stool and staring out at his ruined farm.  It was yellowish green with weeds in spots but otherwise as dead as it was a year ago when the soldiers came and killed their farm for good.

Natasha sighed.  She wished she could do something for him.  She had not forgotten how he had come to her house on the hill and helped her take care of her parents, though she had disobeyed him by going there, and how he still let her have time to go through her family's images in peace, giving her a warning rap and call from the door above when it was time to put it all away and come to work.  He had usually been gentle with her, though she knew when she deserved a punishment and certainly got it.

She wished there were more she could do besides come back from the Orvo tunnels with only a few rations and the best wishes of the Kitaevs.  She could see his disappointment, though he did not voice it so much anymore, like Mrs. Dolina.  No, like her, he seemed to have lost his care for everything but the most basic things.

He spotted her, then, and gestured to the back yard.  Natasha nodded and led the way there.

"Show me what you do when you are grabbed," he said once they were out of sight of the others.

Natasha gazed up at him.

"Show me, girl!  You need to know this!"

He grabbed her arm.  Dropping to a knee, she twisted and played a stab to his leg before scrambling up again.

Lost care, yes, for everything but her survival.

* * *

They only looked at the hovercar as it zoomed in over the scraggly moss, carrying three soldiers in tan with brown and gold armbands.  With all of the patrols zooming overhead lately, they had been predicting another visit.  Even Polina did not flinch when she came out from the kitchen and confirmed the noise to Mrs. Dolina inside.  When two of the soldiers came into the yard, Mr. Dolina simply stood from his stool and faced them.  Natasha stayed by the table under the tree with Anja and Marko.

"What do you want?" Mr. Dolina asked, speaking in Unified for the first time to them.

"We're here to inform you that all remaining settlements are going to be cleared out," one of the soldiers told him, her eyes grazing over them all as she spoke.  "You have nine days to vacate.  After that time, you will be forcefully removed."

"Why? Why do you insist on this, when we do nothing wrong and stay out of your business?"

"We're doing this for your own safety."

"Pah!"

"All populations need to be contained, else risk attack.  I'm sure you've seen the patrols.  Not all of them are ours.  You will be a target because you're seen as a threat."

"How can a traditionalist farm--or what is left of it--be any threat to any of the clans, much less one with ships?"

"In nine days, we will return to dissolve this settlement," she repeated.  "You will be taken to Orvo, level eleven epsilon, where you will be interrogated by our commander and assigned living space on level two.  Your...family will go with you."

Natasha's eyes remained still, but her heart raced at the thought.  Level eleven epsilon was the heart of the Coalition stronghold, where most of the soldiers were sent from, according to Mr. Sereda.  She needed to move her belongings before they could come back.  She could not be brought to the devil she knew lived there.  In seconds, she had come up with the fastest way to do that and get them out of the house and to the Kitaevs' hovel, where she would need to ask for a place to stay.  She must survive, no matter the cost, and she must keep Polina and Irisha safe.

"And what happens when you people come back and I refuse to leave my land?"

"Then you will probably not make it as far as Orvo," she replied coolly.

"Then I will not make it there!" he shot back, poking himself in the chest with his thumb.  "I will gladly die before crawling into your hellhole like a damned rat!  Bring all you have and destroy us!"

The soldier behind the first activated his rifle when Mr. Dolina advanced in his passion, but the other one eased it aside with a brush of her hand.  "That's what I've been told.  We had a couple others like you, but they weren't stupid enough to endanger their children.  They eventually came to their senses."

"You know nothing of my senses," he growled.  "Get the hell off my land.  It is still mine, until I die upon it, and you are unwelcome.  Leave!"

"Fine, but not without..." She pulled out her PADD and glanced at it.  "I have an order to bring Mark Calinas with us today."

Marko started back.

"Why?" Mr. Dolina scowled.

"We have orders for all healthy teenagers outside clan affiliation ages twelve and over to be recruited for training."  She looked over at Marko, who could not back away fast enough.  "That's him," she told the other officers.

"No!" Anja cried out.  "He is sick!  He can hardly even run, much less be trained!"

"We have medicine that'll take care of that," said the other officer swiftly as he strode across the yard, his phaser at the ready.  "You'll come or watch the others die.  Now!"

Marko paused at the threat, just long enough for the officer to grab him by the arm and drag him off toward the hovercar.  "No!" he finally yelled.  "I will not go with you!"

"You heard the boy!" Mr. Dolina piped in.  "Let him go!  He is not unaffiliated!  He is a Settler--Marko Denysivich Kaliniak!  His parents were Denys and Oksana Kaliniak!"

"Not according to this record," the female soldier said, gesturing for them to continue to the car.  "Mark Calinas, orphan, Orvo West."

"You will not take him!" Mr. Dolina shouted and wedged himself between the officers to get to Marko.  "You have no right to take him against his and my will!"

The female soldier unholstered her pistol and cracked Mr. Dolina in the eye.  Then she came around and threw a punch into his sternum.  Weakened by months of little food, Mr. Dolina's responses were useless.  Losing his balance as he grabbed his bloodied face, he fell to his hands and knees.  The soldier immediately kicked him in the side three times, until he cried, grunted and rolled away.

"You'll find your complaints pretty useless at this point, Dolina," she stated.  "Our law is set, and this land is ours.  We'll dispose of it and whatever's in it however we please.  You will report to Orvo with your family or you all will die, and Mark Calinas is a Coalition recruit.  You don't get to choose."

"To hell with you all!" came a strangled cry from the hovercar.  But then, twisting deftly out of the grip holding him, Marko pushed one of the soldiers over and grabbed his rifle.  Jumping from the vehicle, he turned to aim it at the female soldier.  "Get away from him," Marko yelled, "or _you_ die!"

"Mercer!" the woman barked.

"Too bad.  You'd have made a good one," Mercer said and shot Marko in the sternum.

Anja and Natasha gasped.

Marko did not move for several seconds, and for the same amount of time, his face remained frozen with determination, ready to fire.  But no shot came.  A moment later, his legs went boneless and he collapsed to the dirt.

The woman rolled her eyes.  "You could have just stunned him, you know.  God, Mercer, he was only fourteen."

"This rifle doesn't have a stun setting--and neither did the one he was aiming at you, by the way.  You're welcome."

"What idiot's in charge of supply this week?" she muttered in return then looked down at Mr. Dolina, who still lay on the ground, gasping for air.  "You will relocate, or you all will die."  With that, she walked past Marko's body, retrieving the rifle from his pale grip with a sweep of her hand, and climbed into the hovercar.  For a moment, she looked back for a moment, ghosting some regret, but as soon as her comrade got back behind the control panel, she gave the order to go.  They sailed quickly away a moment later.

Anja finally broke out in tears, her first since the beginning that any of them had seen, and ran across the yard.  Throwing herself down by Marko's body, she sobbed loudly and drew his limp form onto her thighs.

Natasha came, too, but instead of going to them, she knelt next to Mr. Dolina, who gaped at the nearby scene, his eyes bloodshot with shock.  Mr. Dolina did not hush Anja, but at last got himself up enough to crawl over to her and touch Marko's head.  "He was like your brother, I know," he coughed.  "I tried..."

Anja cried harder, nodding furiously before leaning down to embrace Marko.  "He was...  Yes, he was just like my brother had been!  And I have none again!  Why was I not on the list? I would have gone instead of him!  I would have given myself for him!"

"And you would be dead now, instead," Mr. Dolina told her gently, "because you too are brave and know your soul, like Marko had.  His soul is strong and true, Anja, and you will see him again someday, in eternity."

"Do you _really_ believe that?" she challenged him.

He nodded slowly.  "I would not have survived this life without believing it.  This--this life, this place--this is not all we have.  There is more, better...forever."  His hand pressed Marko's hair once again.  "But in this world, it is hard.  Very hard."

Her chest crushing with sadness, wanting to touch them but unable to reach out, Natasha glanced back toward the house.  Polina and Irisha were standing at the corner, watching.

Natasha only hoped that when the soldiers returned to destroy all they had left, she would not have to run as fast as she had the first time.

-

The lethargy swiftly resumed following Marko's burial, but with added pall of their oncoming relocation, now guaranteed.  But none of them spoke of it.  They rather went quietly about their days, ticking off those last miserable moments, of uselessness, of hunger, of death, dirt and weeds--everything the clans had left for them.

Winter's end remained disturbingly warm and dry.  The ground had caked and cracked under the sun, and a balmy breeze continued to whip the crust and flakes of grass.  Under the sprigs of shade provided by the elm, Anja mourned in what ways she could: standing at the table she and Marko had shared, picking at parts.  Polina walked around with Irisha while Mrs. Dolina was busy cooking more weeds.  The kitchen was terribly hot.  

Natasha, with nothing left to busy herself with in the house, came out and found Mr. Dolina yet again on his stoop.  Watching him for nearly a minute, she looked around and found one of the small stools stacked by the end of the house.  Bringing it over, she set it down beside the old man and lowered herself onto it.  Though she ate very little now, she was growing quite tall for her age--Mr. Dolina often said so--and so her knees came up awkwardly, when only a year ago, the stool was just right.  Pushing her legs out and resting her forearms on her knees, she looked up at him.

Mr. Dolina reached out and patted her arm briefly.  "I tell you to accept the now and move forward," he said.  "But I admit, I think about how the farm used to be, what we used to have."

"I know," she said, smiling a little at his admission.  "But you always said, too, that we must take what we can of what came before and treasure it, keep it safe inside us, and use it when we can.  Because we remember does not mean we live with things that no longer exist."

He laughed a little at that.  "You are a smart girl.  Very smart--and very good, like your parents.  They gave you a proper start.  Thank you."

"I think about how things were, too," Natasha went on.  "I always remember--and will never forget.  I make myself not forget.  But I do not think it will ever be the way it was again.  Even if peace returned to Turkana and the farm was allowed to grow again, and all of us got homes again, it would never be what it was.  I never expect what I had to come back, and I know I cannot wish for it.  I will live with something different.  That is what accepting is."

"And so we must move forward," Mr. Dolina affirmed.  "Accept and move forward.  It is also how we grow, Natasha."

"Will you move forward, Mr. Dolina?"

He paused then looked askance at her.  "Of course.  But where I move and how I grow must be different, for I am older, and the best of my life has been lived."

She nodded slowly, drawing her gaze back out to the yard.  Swirls of dry rotted hay danced across the dirt.  She wondered briefly where they could have come from.  The field had been bare for so long.

"I never had children, Natasha," Mr. Dolina stated, coughing an assurance of that fact.  "I never wanted children.  But you would have made me a good one, if you had been mine.  I would have been proud...to have a daughter like you."

She gazed at him.

"You have been very strong, girl, living for the moment, staying focused on what needed to be done.  And you complained little, even when I saw it in you.  You knew better than to voice it.  That takes a clever mind."  Pausing again he tapped her arm.  She caught his heavy gaze again.  "Natasha, you must survive at any cost.  You must give yourself to the present, no matter what stands before you, and get to the next moment.  Make what sacrifices you must, do all you need to rise above them, and _live_.  I know you can do this without the cost of your soul.  Keep it tight within you, and it will keep you strong, as you have been."

"Not always," Natasha admitted, feeling a twinge in her chest.  "I have been so frightened, I could hardly move."

"Ah, but you _did_ move again, and you _did_ move forward and bring yourself home to us--and then you have gone out again and again.  And you are just a little kid!  I do not forget this, Natasha!  You were a small girl, and still so innocent when the world was taken from us, and yet you had the courage and foresight to take care of your parents' grave.  It amazed me!"

"I just could not leave them to be rained and snowed on," Natasha said softly, remembering the sight...her mother's shrunken hand, her father's coat...  "Or worse."

"That is conscience, which they bred hard in you from the start.  Thanks to that, you _do_ care deeply, even when you say nothing; you work very well, think well on your feet, and you do not give up when things are difficult.  That is your very special strength, and no one will ever take it from you."

"Unless I give it away," Natasha rejoined, straightening, "and I never will.  They cannot have it!"

"Yes....  Yes.  And you can now have this."  Reaching into his pocket, Mr. Dolina pulled out a chain, onto which had been strung two gold rings.  One was wide and etched with leaves; the other was more delicate, the metal woven into a sort of flower with small jewels in the middle.  Natasha stared at them, almost not recognizing them, but somehow...

"They would have wanted you to have them," Mr. Dolina told her quietly.  "I took them for you to keep.  Do not wear this chain on your neck, but keep them in Larisa's safe boxes."

Then Natasha realized: "Mama and Tato's rings.  You took them from them?"

"They would have given them to their children in time," Mr. Dolina reiterated, and he pressed them into Natasha's small, dirty hand.  "You are what is left."

"And Irisha--"

"She remembers nothing.  She is raised without them and will never know what you do.  _You_ are their living child, all that is left of them."

Natasha nodded, her gaze fixed on the beautiful stones embedded in the precious metal, greens and blues, like their eyes, staring lovingly back at her...and not her sister.  Much as she wanted to think otherwise, she knew Irisha was different, and that it was probably good that she was.  As Mrs. Dolina had said, she would be safer that way.  But it still made Natasha feel all the more orphaned.

"I am going to tell you something now that is very important," Mr. Dolina continued, "something I want you to promise me." 

She looked at him again.  

"Promise me, Natasha, that you will do all you can to survive, even if in the hood of the cadres' lies and the hell they have supplied our people to live in.  Go at Kitaevs' direction and live as best you can.  Stand before those devils when they come, take them down when it is safe to do so, but never show any of them but what you want others to see.  This will protect you.  This will save you.  In this life, you will have to do things you do not like, but if it keeps you alive? Do it.  You know your soul.  You know your mind.  You know your heart.  You will lose none of these things to survive.  Keep your soul tight in you, do all you must to survive, and regret nothing!  Nothing, Natasha!  Your open eyes, always, will know truth and never regret!"

"I do not forget this."

He relented a little at that, and offered her a gentler gaze, then.  "Let an old man go to his grave knowing the one kid he would have as a daughter will survive this hell, okay?"

"Mr. Dolina..." Natasha started, but suddenly could not finish, but stared at him longingly.  For all that had been taken away from her, it dawned on her that she really was going to lose him, too, and there was nothing she could do about that, any more than she could do about the rest.  Most of all, he was showing her great respect to tell her the truth.  

Her father had been correct: Mr. Dolina was a good man.

"I promise."

"Your life is a gift, Nataliya," he told her.  "Never take this for granted.  I have taught you many things that Larisa and Ilya would not have liked so that you could keep this life, but there is one thing I can tell you to do that I know they would have approved of."

"You have said all of this," she said, asking him with her tone not to continue.  She did not want to hear anymore, now.

"I teach you to survive, yes, but never settle for mere survival, as so many have let themselves do in good times and bad.  Live for now, with your eyes open, and your heart ready, and never give that life away.  Where you can, whenever you can, take all that you are able to take.  Some of us must settle for less--but not you.  You are meant for more than that.  I know in my soul, Nataliya Ilyivna, your worth is more than that."  He reached out and put his big hand over hers.  Drawing a deep breath, his fingers closed over her hand.  His skin was dry and very warm.  His lips turned up, and his blue eyes sparked as he gazed into hers.  "If I die, Natasha, do not bury me or burn me up.  Leave me as I lie.  Promise me."

The one thing she _could_ do, she understood.  It was the one thing she could do _for him_ , and sadly so easy.  "I promise," Natasha whispered.

At that moment, Mrs. Dolina came out into the yard, passing them and the work table without a word or a glance.  She almost seemed like herself when she threw open the gate to the old chicken yard, grabbed the last of the chickens by the neck and killed it with a snap of her wrist.

"What the hell are you doing, woman?" Mr. Dolina demanded.

"Making dinner!" she snapped.  Turning, she stomped back through the yard and into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

They ate very well that night, with a roast chicken, braised wild onions, greens and fruited water.  They ate slowly but gladly, filling themselves beyond capacity in little time for their shrunken stomachs, and even little Irisha fell asleep on the cot nearby three hours before her usual bedtime.  Picking at the pan, then, they toasted the boys, and Mr. Dolina even prayed a little blessing for their souls to find their parents in the hereafter.

"Do you really believe that?" Natasha asked him.  "That we go to another place?"

"I have no reason to think it cannot be true," he replied, taking another piece of meat and wiping it in the juices before eating it.  "Like I told Anja, there has to be something about the old wisdom that held people to it for so long, and still does in places.  We are fools to think that we are the end.  There is more."

"That is what Mama always said," Natasha nodded.  

"Your mama was a wise, good woman.  Have I said it enough?"  He looked deeply at her, holding her there for some time.  Natasha grinned.  He had been doing that so often lately that she was coming to expect it.  At length, he said, "Keep your mind open to everything that is possible, Natasha, and you will have a good life, no matter where you are, and what you do.  Regret nothing, and always..."  He laughed a little.  "Well, you know what I have taught you."

"Yes, Mr. Dolina.  You have taught me very well--all of us."

He leaned his gruff, old face toward her.  "Never forget what I have given you, Natasha."

"I never forget anything," she told him, then offered Mrs. Dolina a little smile.  "Thank you for giving us all you have."

"And for this dinner!" Polina chimed in.  "It was delicious."

"Good," Mrs. Dolina said with a firm nod.  "It is good to enjoy things sometimes.  Lev and I forgot that for a while, when things got so hard.  We have been hard on you girls because of it."

"But Natasha was right that you have taught us so much," Anja said, likewise in a generous mood that evening.  "We could not have learned if you did not make us.  You have been like parents to us."

Natasha blinked at that.  She held onto hers so tight, she had never imagined the Dolinas as parents, just the Dolinas.  But they _had_ cared for them, saw after their needs, raised Irisha and taught them everything they knew.  And she had a feeling that Mr. Dolina might even love her.

They were not her parents, and they were still rough people, but they had done the best they could.

Just like them all.

"Thank you, Anja," Mrs. Dolina said.  Looking at her husband, Natasha clearly saw the tears in her eyes, but she blotted them away with her tattered napkin before they could grow.

And just like them all, the Dolinas knew it was the end.

So they had chicken and sweet water that night, and remembered one another well for the first time in nearly two years.

Natasha and Polina spent the evening finishing packing their remaining belongings.  Between patrol shifts, they dragged the bundles they knew they could not immediately take across the waste field to the top of the hill, covered it with a green blanket and secured it with rocks.  They worked through the night.

Coming back after the last trip, Natasha looked in on Irisha.  The girl was still fast asleep on her cot.  Mrs. Dolina had not bothered to bring it back into the bedroom.

She really did look like their mother, Natasha mused, and she could see her all over again, laughing and coming to hold her in her slender, strong arms.  Roman had looked like her, too, with his light brown hair and big eyes.  He'd also had their mother's easy temperament and love of food, making him decidedly rounder than the rest of them.

Would he have grown as thin, had he survived? Would the soldiers have tried to take him away, and would he have fought them? Matviy would have, no question.  Matviy would have died to defend them, just like Marko swore he would, and had, in his way.  How would Roman have borne the change?

She knew from the Kitaevs that her brothers and other relations had been in the most devastated sections of the city.  No one had survived.  They sent an inquiry around the levels, anyway, only to confirm it without question.

Irisha was the only family she had left, and they barely knew each other.

The ten day warning was nearly gone, too.

Her known life, once again, was over.

It was not all that was over.

* * *

They were dead.

Natasha's hand still clutched the bag she and Polina had brought up from the basement as they stared at the sight: The Dolinas, seemingly asleep, but not ever waking up.  It was difficult to tell how they had done it.  Phaser shots? Hard to tell.  Their hands were at their sides, and they lay flat next to each other without touching.  Maybe it was poison.  Mr. Dolina knew so many ways about death.

Natasha sighed a deep breath, but even looking upon the man who had guided her, she didn't feel any need to mourn.  Perhaps she should, but she did not.  The others did not look to, either, but were far more surprised by their discovery.  Only Irisha was crying, crying against Mrs. Dolina's cold, thick neck and begging her to wake up.  It was her cries that had alerted them from their last bundles.

"She won't wake," Polina told her quietly in Standard.

"They did what they said they would," Natasha said.  "They ended their life here, on their farm."

Irisha wailed, not hearing anything.  "Liza has to stay!  Liza!  Liza!"

As she continued to watch her sister's hysterics play out, a trickle of anger settled in Natasha's heart and bones, even as she knew there was as little use in it as was mourning.  Anger at what? she wondered, shaking her head to herself.  The soldiers, of course, for pushing those people to take their lives instead of leaving them alone--leaving them _all_ alone; for taking Marko away, Olek, her family, her life.  And perhaps she was angry at the Dolinas, too, for not being as strong and resilient as they had made she and the other children be, for not staying when they could....

"They had planned this," she muttered.  "They knew what they would be doing last night when she cooked the chicken." 

_And when he spoke to me and made me promise,_ she privately added.

"They said they would never go to the tunnels," Anja agreed.  "They were much older.  They probably could not have adapted to things there and they knew it."

"They might have thought of Irisha, though," Natasha returned.  "If only for a while.  She should have had a mother for longer."  Feeling the spin of emotion catch in her chest, she turned away from the scene.  "It does not matter now.  It is over.  We have to leave."

"Yes," Anja said, "we must.  The soldiers will come soon.  We will take all of the wares from the house and hide them for bringing to the tunnels later."

"We can put them with our things on the hilltop," Polina said.  "They are well covered, as long as a bad storm does not come."

Natasha rolled her eyes.  A bad storm had not come in a year.

"Start that now, okay? All of the kitchen things, whatever people can use.  I will get the power cards and machinery.  Then we will go to Orvo and ask the Kitaevs if they can find us a hovel.  We will stay together."

"What about Irisha?" Polina asked.

"What about Irisha?" Natasha asked.

"I think Opal Wengel will help," Anja said.  "Mrs. Dolina wrote her, probably knowing what would happen.  We will ask when we get there."

"What are you saying?" Irisha demanded in Standard.

"We take you to Orvo tunnels today," Natasha answered then left the room when her little sister protested.

"The soldiers were going to force the Dolinas to move, but they wouldn't," she heard Anja tell her.  "They're gone, so now we must go.  We'll take care of you."

"Natasha will see you get all you need," Polina added.  "You will be okay."

"No!  I don't want to go!  --Liza!  Liza!" the little girl cried again.

Natasha closed the basement door behind her.  

Getting back to her corner, she first pocketed her phaser, one Mr. Dolina had rebuilt for her.  Anja carried the very good one that Natasha had taken from the guard.  She slid her garrote into her other pocket.  Then she pressed her feet into Olek's old boots and strapped them tightly so they would not come off when she ran.  She knew they would have to run at some point.

Natasha then uncovered her mother's spacesafe boxes.  She stared at them then bent to touch the latches and make certain they were securely closed.  Taking a belt from the remainder of her pile, she strapped the attachés together by the handle then slung the belt over her shoulder.  Though they did have some weight when put together, they were not very heavy and not thick.  She could run.

She pulled on her long coat, once Olek's, and stuffed a bag with the last of the clothes that she and Polina shared.  Polina could carry that.  Finally, she shoved her old red boots, her mother's shawl and Tosha into one last bag, which she hung over her other shoulder.

Backing up, she was eerily calm as she looked at her little corner, her bed for the past two years.  It looked much as it had the day she hurried down there, not an hour after her parents were murdered, when she was crying and terrified, uncertain of what would come.  Now, bigger, harder and smarter, there was not so much fear as a need to do what needed to be done, to move, to move forward.  

To grow.

Anja came down then and crossed to grab her bags.  "Are you finished? Do you have Polina's bag?"

"Yes," Natasha responded and turned away from the corner.  She looked at Anja in the dim, hazy light coming from the high window.  Olek's bed had been nearly under it, and he'd often suffered them climbing on his things to look outside when something stirred up.

"Are you ready?" Anja then asked, gentler now.

Natasha's lips flicked briefly up.  "Yes.  We can go now."

Anja reached out and touched Natasha's shoulder.  "Come.  We still have to drag things to the hill."

A couple of hours later, with all they would come back for dragged to the hill and covered with the rest, and then loaded with all they could comfortably carry, Anja armed and carrying the least, Irisha pulling Polina's hand to go back and Natasha with two bags and her boxes strapped over her shoulders, they set off.  Walking along the side of the slope to took the center path into Orvo, their dirt-caked boots slipping against the dusty earth they headed around the low bank for the line of fir trees.

Natasha glanced toward the ruin of her old house when they came up the hill and she found herself pausing, focusing on the angles of metal and glass in the distance.  From there, it looked to have hardly changed since she last left it.  Not even weeds had returned to the place.  Her heart yearned to go there, but she had promised, and she knew they should not take too much time.  But she wished...

"What's that?" Irisha asked when Polina stopped them, too, to touch Natasha's hand and look sympathetically at her.

"Mohyla," Natasha said simply and continued to the trees, stepping up her pace a bit to catch up with Anja.  She heard Polina whispering to Irisha now, probably telling her about the house, but Natasha did not care.  She felt unsafe, there in the open.  "Come!  Sun gets very hot!"

There, Anja suggested they should wait for dusk, just in case.

They chose a little clearing near the edge, where they could watch the horizon.  Settled on a thick bed of pine needles, they drank some water and offered Irisha some of the leftover meat from the night before.  But the girl turned her face away, crossing her arms in a strikingly similar fashion to Mrs. Dolina.

"I want to go back to Liza and Lev," she said and reached out to pull on Anja's shirt.  "Take me back!"

"No," Anja told her firmly.  "And be quiet.  You must learn to be very quiet, like all the other little children in Orvo have.  Soldiers hear you if you're loud."

"I don't care.  I want to go home!"

"If you go back, you starve with dead people," Natasha told her, "and then soldiers come and take you away, and then _you_ die.  Mrs. Dolina is dead, but no crying makes them less dead.  Stay with us, and you live."

"I hate you!  I don't want to go with you!  Take me home!"

"Your home is gone," Natasha shot back, her anger flaring in her chest.  "It was gone when you were baby!  That mohyla? It means grave--where our parents are dead.  I am what you have.  I am family--and Mrs. Dolina said listen to me, so listen and stop crying!  I promise, Irisha, I will keep you safe."

"We all will," Anja assured her.  "We have taken care of each other for a long time.  We always will, as long as we live, okay? So don't be frightened, Irisha.  We are all here for each other."

Polina smiled.  "Always."

Irisha did not look happy to hear it, Natasha could tell--and how could she be? Mrs. Dolina was all she knew until just the night before, who kissed her to sleep and gave her all she had known.  She had been kept somewhat protected, away from the everyday workings on the land and the haggard children working outside.  Only recently had she been encouraged to know Natasha, just a short time before finding her guardians dead in their bed.  Now she had to move from the only place she remembered to the terrible underground, good only for food.  She was more than a year and a half younger than Natasha had been when she had lost everything, too.  How could she understand anything?

No, Irisha could not be expected to accept and move on, as Natasha had become so good at doing.  But she did stop crying.  Leaning on Polina's legs, she even reached out and picked up a piece of meat from the plate they had put out.  Natasha opened a bottle for her to drink from and handed it to her.

As the sun began to make its way into afternoon, the four girls set out again, trudging slowly into the long grass to the east of the city.  There, the usual collection of craft shells and abandoned chunks of metal lay, a monument to the failure of that bitterly independent society.  There, Anja crouched down and raised her hand behind her to alert the others.  "Wait and watch," she told them quietly.

"We _should_ wait--wait until later," Natasha whispered, coming up next to her.  "It is too difficult to see the lights in the sun, even with it lower now."

"You are probably right," Anja said.  "But we have come this far.  We might have more trouble if we wait.  The patrols will start again soon."

"We can wait in one of the shells."

"Yes.  Get the others over there.  I will go over there to watch the other sentry tower."

"Okay."  Natasha gestured to Polina, who, understanding, pulled Irisha silently back and into the case of an old platform craft.  Then she began to crawl there, too, taking a moment to straighten behind a large cap.

Anja had shifted her position to a place several meters in front of the platform craft, eyeing the pattern in the lights as she always did.  Natasha had always marveled at her ability to focus on them.  She could sit for an hour, just watching the pattern.  

For some reason, she did not wait that day.  She jerked around and looked from one point and then another.  Brushing at the dirt on her face, Anja then moved to get behind a smaller assembly, and then another one.  But as soon as she slipped out, the lights suddenly shifted out of time and bounced off of her.  Anja gasped and shot a look back at the craft.  Quickly the lights returned and Anja dropped her bags and shrieked, "No!  I am caught!"

"Run!" Natasha yelled.

But Anja was already running, tearing into the ground for the closest chunk of anything that would protect her, crying out in fear when she saw her efforts were in vain.  The lights followed her every move, taunting her to continue darting about like a bug on the fire, until as last, a ray of red tore out of a turret somewhere in the blackened city.

It struck her cleanly in the ribs, radiating throughout her torso, and her arms flung out in one last desperate peal for escape.

"Anja, no!"  Natasha and instinctively dove to the ground as the blackened remains of her friend disintegrated and fell onto the grassy plain.  Its work done, the red beam was gone as quickly as it had come.  Trembling with shock, Natasha glared at the turret, and then the beams of light as they swayed back to the west.  

Scrambling out, she grabbed Anja's bags and phaser and, hardly holding on, got back to the platform, where Polina was crying and holding Irisha close against her.  Natasha just shook her head and crawled back to where she could see.

"Prepare to run," she whispered.  "We must run, and run hard, until we are to the access."

"Tell us when," Polina gasped, trying hard to calm herself.  "I will run very fast, Natasha.  I want to be safe again."

"Nothing is safe."

"Anything is safer than this place!"

Natasha conceded with a nod.  "Follow me as closely as you can--but do not let go of Irisha."

For nearly a minute, she watched the lights turn, sway, pause, and she tried not to breathe the fumes drifting over from Anja's death, and she tried not to miss her, who had been so good despite being so hurt and angry.  She had taught Natasha and the others so much, and had wanted to keep going with them, taking care of them and moving forward, always.

 _Regret rots the soul,_ she heard Mr. Dolina telling her.  In the summer sun, his skin brown and shaggy hair shining silver, he got down on a knee to recharge the phaser she practiced with when the others were away.  _And pity feeds the rot.  The only thing you can control is your mind, your heart and your hands.  Everything else? When done, it is done.  Accept and move on.  Take the lessons you have learned and the memories you treasure, but leave the rest behind.  It will not miss you._

The sunlight tucked behind a cloud.  The heat faded.  She was in the field again, looking forward to a new life in the drear underground.  And she could see the lights, turning, turning...shifting....

"Accept and move on," she whispered to herself.  "Keep it tight....  Keep it tight."

"Why are we here?" Irisha asked.

"So we are safe," Natasha answered, still watching.  "But we will run soon.  Be fast, Irisha!  For Mrs. Dolina, you must live, okay? She wants you to live!  Be fast!"  She checked that her things were still hanging from her shoulders then pulled Anja's bags into her grimy fingers.  "Ready..."  At last the lights swirled back again, then ducked farther north, moving around.  "Go!" she told Polina and Irisha.  "Fast as you can to access!  Now!"

Polina grabbed Irisha's hand and took off into the field.  Natasha sucked a quick breath and followed.

Tired as they should have been, their run doubled in speed over and around the increasing rubble they knew so well now.  Burdened with as much as they could carry, they ran for their very lives, harder than they ever had.  Charred roof pinnacles and wrecked hovercraft passed to their left and right.  Scraps and tubes and leftover parts of bodies, some trying to get in, some trying to get out, all were left behind.  

The lasers turned.

"Shvydshe!"

But they did not.  Natasha darted a look up at the lights.  They were going too slowly.  They had to go faster.

Natasha slid the bag loop onto the bend of her arm and grabbed Irisha's other hand to speed them all even more, leaping over a sheet of metal in a blink of sunlight.  Her legs and arms screamed with pain, but she told herself again and again it would not be long.  They would get there.  The lights would not find them.  

She cried out and threw Irisha ahead of herself, over the gully and toward the wall.  The girl tumbled head over heels like a lumpy bag.

They had passed the wrecked transport, and then the toppled columns....  

Catching up to her little sister, she grabbed her hand again and hurled her forward, up to the rock wall and into the old street access; then she caught her again and was careening alongside the broken station wall, watching, watching...

At last, her eyes found the jagged door.  "There!"

The stench of the tunnels made her heart leap with relief.  Even her little sister's cries of pain and disgust gave her joy.  They would make it.  They were safe.  They would survive.

She flung herself against the blackened metal as if to embrace it, gasping for each breath of corrupted, underground air.

It was there that she determined that she was meant to live.

Her parents had wanted it, and Mr. Dolina had named it among his final wishes.  Now she demanded it of herself.

It was there that she demanded over all things that she live.

* * *

_Felled in flight_  
 _Ripples twist the blue_  
 _Sun beats its reaches_  
 _Cold reflections in the summer haze_  
 _Yearning for the sand_  
 _I wait at the shore_  
 _I remember the flight_  
 _I feel the breeze_  
 _Watching for a promise of peace_

"When will it be time?" Polina asked, her sweet voice floating through the dark like an errant feather.

Natasha tucked away the volume.  Locked the spacesafe box and peered over at the chronometer.  Its face was badly cracked, so she had to stare at it for a moment to read it correctly.  "Six hundred--daybreak."  She pulled on her jacket.  "Irisha need to go to the Wengel's."

The girl was still asleep, clutching onto Tosha under several layers of blankets, just as she liked it.  In the other corner, Mr. Teliga was also asleep, snoring lightly.  Natasha grabbed the bandage and began to bind her ankle.  

She had twisted it badly on the ladders the night before--stupidly, really, as she was bringing up water.  Mrs. Sereda, who had been with her, helped her the rest of the way to One-West-One.  Taking her to the little clinic at the north end of the atrium, she stood by as Cicilo taught Natasha how to stabilize it with strips of cloth.  Cicilo was an exhausted and unhappy man of only thirty, with several years' nursing experience in what had been the Darston Clinic, a bald, scarred head thanks to the sweep of fire when Orvo fell and a permanent frown for his resulting mood.  Nevertheless, he patiently let Natasha wrap her foot herself a few times to be certain she had learned properly, and then herded her out to take in the next person waiting for his attention.

Polina tied her coat belt tightly around her waist and crouched down next to Natasha to watch her.  "Does it hurt?"

"Yes.  But I can run."

"Maybe you should stay."

Natasha shrugged.  "I do not want to fall again," she admitted.  She would not have said this to anyone else.

"Then I will go."

"You must not go alone," Natasha told her, pulling the cloth a little tighter before bringing it around again.  It had taken her many times with clumsy hands to do it without making her foot fall asleep.  It would have to do, though, until she could get down to level six, sneak into the power transfer closet with Dima and recharge Cicilo's muscular regenerator, which would not happen as surely if she could not run _very_ well.

"I will have someone run with me," Polina agreed.  "Maybe Alexia."

"She asks for too much."

"Yes, but she will come if I ask."

Again, Natasha shrugged.  "As long as there is someone."

Polina got up and checked their ration basket and supplement supply.  Nodding to herself, she set about neatening their little living space, though Natasha had already tidied it.  After finding a few more things to occupy the next few minutes, Polina finally looked into the corridor.  "Do you think anyone is in the atrium?"

"Anna might be there," Natasha offered.  Her friend liked having something to do, and in the tunnels without the Dolinas looming over her, her fidgety tendencies had doubled, canceling out a fair portion of her terror.  Mr. Teliga was an excellent companion when he was awake, but he always slept at least a couple of hours after the others had woken.  "Dima will be, soon.  Maybe you can ask him.  He will run with you."

"Okay."  Polina slipped out as soon as she finished speaking.

Natasha unwrapped a portion of her foot with a grunt.  Her toes were becoming numb again.

Mr. Teliga stirred, coughing a bit, and Natasha looked over at him.  When the three surviving girls came to Orvo to stay three months ago, the watchful Kitaevs had arranged for Mr. Teliga to come up at last to a three-by-three meter hovel on the far end of the 1W1 tunnel.  They had been anxious to keep the three girls on level one, with a trustworthy adult and close to their hovel.  Moreover, their hovel was only twenty meters away, near the middle of that tunnel, and the Seredas and Dima lived at the neck of 1W1, closer to the atrium.  The orphans would never want for care.  At the same time, Mr. Teliga was provided with regular and patient companionship in the girls, whom he doted on as much as their meagre lives and his reduced mental capacity could afford.  Polina in particular had thrived in the nest of the grownups' affections.  Natasha thought she was more herself than she had been since Orvo's fall.

Mr. Teliga was too infirm to look after Irisha, but sharp enough to keep their things in order, ask after them and provide a presence when the cadres committed them to "inspections."  The first three levels being "neutral territory," all of the cadres took it upon themselves to "look after" the general population--which usually meant checking for weapons, interrogating people and sometimes taking away people they thought might be useful to them--like they had they tried to do with Marko.

Sometimes, usually after eating, the elderly man would mutter about places far away from Turkana, about Earth and Betazed, the Betreka Nebula and the Hromi cluster, wondrous stars and various aliens encountered long ago, when he served on a fledgling Starfleet ship and was young and strong.  --And then he would tell them about them all over again, and sometimes thrice, because he had forgotten about telling them.  Eventually, he remembered something different, however, and the tales were usually good enough to bear repeating.

Mr. Teliga usually slept through much of the morning, and Polina and Natasha simply made certain he was clean and that his place at the table was set, that there was food in their basket and water in the dispenser when he awoke.  When they got back, they would hide their few provisions and take him to sit in the atrium with the grandmothers.  Natasha sometimes would sneak outside to collect some sticks from the outer wall, which Mr. Telliga used to whittle into little sculptures or puzzle toys for the children.

Polina had already checked their provisions, so when Natasha was confident she could move without too much pain and her boot was strapped securely around her foot, she bent to stir Irisha.

Wordlessly, the little girl turned over and reached out.  Natasha pulled her up and got her onto the chair where she slid on her shoes.  Taking Tosha for a moment, she helped Irisha pull on her sweater, gave her back the doll then fetched her bucket and a spare blanket.  Irisha took her bucket and walked out of the hovel, Natasha close on her heels and flinching a little to put weight on her foot.

_"The body is a shell.  Pain passes.  The soul is forever."_

Natasha pulled a breath and put the ache aside to think about what she needed to do.  Mr. Kitaev wanted her to come to the "school" he and a few other adults had formed that was attended by the other Settler children, Polina included, but like most of the teenagers, she was rarely there for more than half of the time.  She already knew how to read.  She knew how to access the panels around the tunnels, too, though they were in Standard, thanks to Mrs. Zlenko, who also taught her arithmetic and algebra so she could someday learn how to do more things with the computer systems.  She came to Mr. Kitaev's lessons at midday, because Mr. Kitaev always ended with history.  He had no texts, so his long memory in his chosen field often gave him license to ramble.  After so long without stories, Natasha was anxious to listen.

Before any of that, though, she had to go to level three's water dispensary and fill their containers, and she chose to do that after Irisha was delivered, before most of the other people woke up.  The Circle clan, whose territory started on the west end of L3 was not an unkind group, but they had no love for Settlers, whom they blamed for the arguments that began the first fights in Orvo.  Mr. Sereda roundly denied the charges, but it did nothing for Natasha or the other kids who went down for water--and it was always kids.  Adults going down there easily brought on accusations and arguments, one such debate ending in the Settler's corpse soon finding its place in the dead pile just outside the city wall, where the L1 vents were--by design.

She did not like not being able to go to the Heights, and the more she thought about it, the more she felt she should go, after all.  Her foot was well wrapped and firm inside her boot.

Rapping lightly on the bulkhead of the last hovel, Natasha moved ahead of Irisha, pulled open the access hatch then closed it behind them once they were inside the tube.  It used to be a turbolift tube, but it had been broken since the fall, and so the levels had semi-circle platforms added, and extra stairs had been made and put in.  The former east lift tube had been fitted with spiral stairs and a manual lift.  Many people used it to bring up drinking water.  

But the west tube remained the safest way to get between the top three levels, though sometimes it could be the most dangerous place to be, when the clans began to fight, or if other hostiles were making their way through.  Looking down and taking a moment to listen, she gave her little sister a nod.  Irisha got on the ladder first and descended quickly, Tosha's dress held in her teeth and her bucket hanging from her arm.  Landing on the L3 platform, she got the doll securely in her arm again and took off in the usual direction.  Natasha jumped down after her and followed.

Coming around the junction and Guild territory, Natasha pulled out the ration bars and water that would be for Irisha during the day while she stayed with Opal Wengel and her husband.

Though she had wanted to dislike them at first, Natasha found the Wengels to be a staid but good couple.  Mrs. Wengel was kinder than her cousin, Mrs. Dolina, had ostensibly been, and Mr. Wengel, after some time, even managed to ask after her and Polina, who sometimes came with Natasha to drop off her sister for the day.  They had a large hovel stuffed with everything they could salvage from the surface during the short time they had been permitted after the fall, and Mr. Wengel slept a great deal in the middle of it for lack of any desire to much else.  

Meanwhile, they had taken to watching and teaching several Guild children with the help of a couple of other adults, now that younger adults had begun to mill out and work on the tunnels and utilities again.  So Irisha stayed most of the day with the Wengels, which made perfect sense to everyone involved.  The girl was Standard-speaking--and even more stubborn about that than Natasha was about speaking Unified, which both confused and disgusted Natasha so that she often had to bite her tongue and was incapable of making nice of it.  Other Settlers tried to soothe and smile through the insult because Irisha could not help having been taught by Liza Dolina, and she had been through such trauma in losing the mother she knew.  Soured by their pity, Natasha enjoyed some grim satisfaction when Irisha turned away from them as well, and then was happy when Natasha gave her sister what she wanted: a return to her Guild friends and the Wengels.  

Having been told a hundred times how much safer Irisha was, now by every Guild and even Circle citizens who cared to voice an opinion, Natasha stopped thinking about about Mrs. Kitaev's suggestion to bring Irisha to the Settler school again, and often let Mr. Teliga translate for her when she was too tired and too angry to consider her every word.  Given Irisha's lack of enthusiasm for going back to L1 every day, she wondered why she bothered collecting her, too.  She could as easily bring a full day's supplement and water.

She did, anyway.  Irisha was her sister.  It was correct for her to keep her.  Their mother--their _real_ mother, would have wanted it.

Predictably, the Wengels were still asleep when the girls arrived, nearly fully covered by their thick blankets and various recovered items when the girls arrived.  Neither were the other children there.  Not yet.  The lower levels had less sense of day.  So, Natasha spread out Irisha's blanket and gave her her water.  Irisha got down on the blanket and curled up, letting her sister cover her before turning over.  

"I will come at dusk," she whispered.  

"I know."  Irisha's eyes were already closed.

Straightening, Natasha dropped Irisha's ration cubes plus one into the Wengels' basket and left.  She returned to L1, got the water jugs and a belt to strap the handles together then returned to L3.  Thankfully, those corridors were still empty, too, and even with the jugs and a limp, she got through silently.

She had quickly learned the value of silence, more than ever since they settled there.

Shadows had faces there, and hiding could be as deadly as being fully visible.  The living areas were generally safe because of the people keeping an eye on the ladders and tubes, some ostensibly, others tucked away.  The largest cadres were nuisances who could be dangerous, but getting through the tunnels, traversing the conduits to get to the power station, water distributors or to the replicators on the Heights, all of which was absolutely necessary for their survival, came with specific risks.

Now eight and a half years old, Natasha felt fully able to face those risks.  She knew she was still a child--and if she had forgotten, she received regular reminders from the adults around her.  She understood that she should have been able to do things that other children do.  She did not forget her primary school and how children there had been.  But that was not her life, and she had chosen to live in it.  Mr. Dolina had trained her to think for survival and defense, and the people who had established the way of things in those tunnels had all taught her how to get what they all needed.  With experience, her fears and fatigue had faded enough to make her useful, but not so much to make her foolish, as some were becoming.  Mr. Sereda warned her every day not to join those dead and maimed fools, as though the past two years had not taught her enough.  The caution she practiced was a valued routine, now, as automatic as breathing.  She needed that.  She found that the more she knew, the better she could do what they needed her to do.  Breaks in the routine were dangerous.  Breaks in the known order could make someone quickly dead.

Naturally, the cadres tended to thrive on surprise.

She got to the dispenser and quickly filled the jugs she had brought.  Looping the belt in the handles, she hauled the weight over her thin shoulder and started on her trip back.  The extra weight that time made Mr. Dolina's advice about ignoring pain more difficult to remember, but she tried as best she could.

Seeing a Circle colonist approach, she turned her gaze away and moved as far to the side as she could.  The young man bumped her, anyway, sending her to her knees and wincing as the pain shot up her leg.

"Look where you're going, Settler bitch," he snapped, unstopped.

Natasha remained silent.  He was not worth the air she could expend.  She stood and continued to the access stairs.  Cutting the watcher there a glance, she returned to the stairs and hauled the water up two levels then shortly down the corridor to set one away in the back of her hovel.  Mr. Teliga was still fast asleep, so Natasha scooped up the second jug and left to meet Polina in the atrium.  It would be daybreak, soon.  

On the way, she dropped the second jug just inside the Kitaevs' hovel, not stopping to talk, though they had seen her.

She found Anna Kalin soon after, standing in her usual spot by the easternmost column and ghosted a grin her way.

"Good morning!" Anna said, appropriately quiet but friendly.  "How is your ankle? Mr. Sereda said it was hurt."

"It is well enough," Natasha answered.  "Do you know--"

"Mr. Sereda will tell you to stay in your hovel if he sees you."

"Mr. Sereda does not tell me what to do," Natasha returned.  "I know when I need to sit and do nothing--and when I do not!"

Anna laughed.  "You are such a gamine, Natasha Ilyivna!  One would think you had been raised in the wild, with all your fierceness!"

"I am looking for Polina.  Where is she?"

"She went off with Dima a while ago, talking about something."

Natasha sighed.

"Is something wrong?"

"I want to go with her to the Heights."

Anna laughed again.  "You _are_ wild.  No one _wants_ to go to the Heights!"

"I did not say I wanted to go to the Heights.  I want Polina and I to go together."

"You are too protective of her," Anna scoffed.  "She has done very well with everything she needs to do, and she can run the Heights without you there to babysit her."

"And you know this from _your_ experience in the tunnels?" Natasha countered.  Thanks to two protective older brothers who provided for her, Anna had never once strayed outside relative safety, exposed to Settlers and Guild only, and as far as level three only to get water.  "Next time, come with us and we will see who is the better runner and who needs babysitting."

With that, she walked away.  Anna was a nice girl, but they called her the "Little Grandmother" for a reason, and Natasha resented hen-pecking.

Not that the teenager was a concern at that point.  Natasha's nerves had begun to tick at her.  Dima going with Polina was a great comfort, but she did wish Polina had waited a while longer.  Shaking her head again, now to herself, she headed back to the 1W1 corridor to get to her hovel, studiously quiet as she passed the Seredas' space then picking up speed to get across the cross-tunnel soon after, past the Kitaev's and into her own.

Mr. Teliga was at last awake, out of bed and puttering around their little space.  She wished him a good morning and poured water into the silver pitcher she had brought from the Dolinas' house.  It had taken her and Polina a few weeks and much begging from the adults not to go to retrieve the rest of the household item they had squirreled away at the top of the hill from the farm.  

She put the pitcher on the battered metal table that served as their room divider and dining space--not to mention an shield when blasts from above sent a storm of sediment through the vents, spraying level one with a fresh layer of grime.

"Where is little curly hair?" Mr Teliga asked, sitting down.  He did not always remember their names.

"She is collecting food," Natasha told him.

He turned a fond look toward her.  His light blue eyes sparked in the dim light.  "You are good to this crazy old man."

Natasha's lips turned up.  She couldn't help her smile, sometimes, especially with him.  "You are not crazy," she told him.  "Those other people are crazy.  You are a kind man who cannot get the medicine you need to help you.  But you are also a generous man who stays with us and stands for us and helps to take care of us.  I am grateful you were able to come to level one when we came to the tunnels."

"We help each other," he confirmed.

"It is what we should do," Natasha said and poured his water.  Then she moved to get their ration pieces.  Breaking off two chunks, she set the rest aside for Polina then went back to the table.  "I will take you to the atrium later, when it is warmer.  While I am gone, you can wash and dress.  Water and clean towels are there."

"Where is little curly hair?"

Natasha answered him again.  She knew as soon as he asked the first time that the query would be repeated a few more times, so she went around the circle with him until he remembered and moved on.  Polina often told her she had the patience of a mountain for being able to do that so often every day, but Natasha simply thought the man deserved a chance to remember and get to the next topic, which came soon enough in that dark place.

"I was a lieutenant on the Phoenix when we came to a region called Betreka--an amazing nebula--so rich to study!  Our science officers could not get enough of it, especially up close.  It was also host to a colony on Aldebaran.  It was there that we accidentally picked up a brood of Culthoran serpents--three-headed snakes that burrowed into the crevices and bulkheads and decided to breed--which, of course, we did not realize until after it was done.  Tribbles could not have done a better job infesting us!"

"Tribbles? What is tribbles?"

"Ah, that is another story, Natalka.  I should tell you about the time I was a lieutenant on the Phoenix..."

Natasha turned down her head and let him start again.

They were done nibbling on their ration and drinking their water when his brow piqued.  "Is that the blond boy?"

There were more blond boys than not on level one, but she knew he was referring to Dima, who had been Mr. Teliga's neighbor with his parents before the fall, and had known the boy since he was born.  She got up to peer around the east corner of the tunnel.  Indeed, the teenager was there talking to Mr. Sereda just outside the Kitaevs' hovel.  Natasha went to them.

"Ah, you should rest your foot, Natasha," Mr. Sereda said first, shaking a finger at her.  "I will bring you to Cicilo again and tell him to scowl at you until you comply!"

Natasha ignored him, though she knew he was trying to be funny.  "Where is Polina?" she asked Dima.

The teenager shrugged.  "She has not returned?”

"Returned from where?"

Dima frowned.  "She said you two were running the tunnels and needed a spotter."

"She went to the atrium to see if _you_ would run with her."

"I am helping to pull junctions today."

"Is something wrong?" Mr. Sereda asked then looked at Dima.  "What did you tell her?"

"I told her to ask Marta."

"Okay," Natasha said, silently recalling where Marta was on L2.  She was still learning her way around the small, dreary town of hovels on levels one through three--nearly a thousand in all, and not one had been fool enough to make their stand out in any way--that in addition to everything else.  She had once thought that a mere twenty-four tunnels in total would be easy to remember, but once she had started living there, she was quickly proven wrong.  The long, monotone passageways were a bigger challenge than the passages to the Heights had been.  "Marta would run with her."

As she turned to return to her hovel, she heard Mr. Sereda call out, "Rest your foot, Natasha Ilyivna!  We need no more lame children here!"

"Yes sir," she called back.

She slowed as she came back to her hovel.  Mr. Teliga was cleaning the table, wiping it over and over again with an old rag that was probably dirtier than the table had been, not the clean one she had put in their basin.  Pausing to watch him for a moment, Natasha went in and pulled on her black coat and drab hat.  "I will return soon," she told him as she put the former on and pocketed the hat.  The coat was hot enough.  Then she slipped a phaser and a its power card into her pocket.  "Polina and I are getting more food."

"Little curly hair is not here?"

"We are getting more food," she repeated.

"Come home soon," Mr. Telliga told her.

"We will."

With that, she left for the rear ladder access and descended to level two.  Coming around in the opposite direction to the Wengel's, Natasha walked quickly down the long, northbound tunnel that led to the east junction.  Taking it, she peeked around a false wall and found Marta.  She was still sleeping.

Natasha stared at her for a moment, feeling her chest flutter.

 _"She said you two were running the tunnels,"_ Dima had said.

Natasha grumbled to herself and turned back for the access ladders.  Polina had gone alone, in spite of what she had said about getting someone to run with her.  

Polina had become bad about that, being so unable to sit still in those dark passages.  She had often lamented the lack of sun, more than she had ever lamented the lack of anything else, and her whole facade had quickly faded to something akin to the grey-white lights they now lived beneath.  For all of that, Polina still had not yet been stupid enough to go to the Heights alone...if that was where she had gone.

Natasha knew she had to check.  She pulled hat securely down and belted her coat.

Slipping into the west track tunnels from there was not difficult, thanks to the early hour.  Though the entire population was living underground, there were still light tubes and chronometers, and there were places that showed the world outside, so most people obeyed the rules of day and night.  That more than half of the Turkanans now had little or no occupation made them sleep in a good deal, too.  Only the young scroungers like herself could be seen, so getting across central Circle territory and into the access corridors that would take her down and across to the Heights went without interruption.

From there, she went down.

Natasha still braced herself before getting into the sewer track, which she had to cross no matter which access port she chose.  It still made her eyes sting as she traversed the dark alley and hopped across to get to the ladder.

That particular path to the Heights was the one she and Polina used most often now, so Natasha took it again, getting herself above the sewers and walking along the pipe amid the waste and debris, still untouched from the fall.  A stiff breeze puffed in, a hint of what awaited them on the vast stretch above.  Stopping a moment to listen for voices and hearing nothing, Natasha went ahead.  Now she lowered herself to a near crouch.  She was nearing the end of several other access tunnels, including one from directly overhead, from which the early sunlight poured mistily in.

But again, it was clear, all the way to the access ladder and down the junction tunnels as far as she could see.

Her gut tightened.  Mr. Dolina had taught her not to trust a clear path.  Propensity to late rising as people were, she knew she should at least hear activity by now.  Something.

There was nothing.

Steeling herself, Natasha got herself to the last access ladder and climbed into the port that would take her to the surface.  It was a long, dark climb, and her foot was starting to pound a little, but she got up quickly and cracked the door just enough to see outside, blinking at the light.

Again, there was nothing.

Her heart began to thrum, and she raised the access further, enough to slip out onto the smooth, patterned concrete.  Lowering the lid softly, she looked around then crawled quickly on the ground to the nearest wall.  From there, she took another look around.

Nothing.

Her eyes drifted out to the view, a beautiful, hot sunny day.  Polina was not wrong to long for the sun.  Natasha missed it, too.  She missed the Dolinas and Anja, Olek, Marko.  She knew she was permitted to.  It had been difficult on the farm, especially in the end, and the soup was terrible....  

No, she would never miss grass and wild onion soup.  But there was sun.  There was a yard that they could walk into without knowing she would be shot.  There was a stream nearby and a reminder of life being possible in that blighted place.  And Mr. Dolina _was_ a good person who had cared.  Mrs. Dolina, too, cared in her way.  Irisha certainly missed her still, and she often compared Natasha to the old woman in every way that was unfavorable.  Natasha followed Mrs. Kitaev's advice and paid the insults no mind.  It was not difficult to do.  After all, Irisha would never have defended Mrs. Dolina had she any memory of their mother.  Rather, Mrs. Dolina had been Irisha's mother.  Natasha, having worshiped their mother and her father, was not a replacement and never would be.  Nobody would be.

Birds passed overhead, crying out.  The caws echoed over the stones.  Natasha bent her head and watched a while longer.  Perhaps, if no one was there, she might make a run to the replicator.  A moment later, she decided and scurried down the row and crossed to the east end.  Ordering a batch of milk cubes, ration meal cubes and supplements, she shoved them into her coat as they appeared then backed quickly away, scouting the area for new and equally silent visitors to the Heights.

There were none.  In fact, it was strangely quiet.

Again, her gut pulled, and she felt her nerves pique.  She drew a deep breath and moved again.

Getting back to the columns, she looked again for a wall to duck into.  Then she saw about twenty meters down the mall an abandoned bag.  Furrowing her brow, she tried to focus on it.  It looked to have had something liquid in it, because it had spilled all over the concrete.  The bag looked like it was still full, though.  For the moment, Natasha forgot about finding Polina for want to see what the bag was about.

She looked around again before daring to approach it.  Whoever had dropped it could easily be back soon.  People often dropped things when they were making a quick escape.  But it would as easily be a trap for the scavenger, and the quiet there could easily be deceiving, so Natasha knew better than to hurry.  Slipping around, column by column, she neared, then continued backwards for a while, to be certain she wasn't being followed.  She stepped silently, so that she could listen to the most minute sounds, someone waiting, someone lurking...a breath...a blink....  

But only the little puffs of air hitting the cliffside met her attention...and the caws of birds, so far away...

When she turned around again, she saw the bag--and nearby it a leg.

A bare leg.  It was small, white and thin.  Bare.

The liquid was not coming from the bag.

Blood.

Natasha's breath caught, and all sense left her as she made the final step around the column.

"Polina..."

She was little more than a pile of rags on her stomach.  White-skinned and bony, her short blond curls knotted with fresh grime around her head, she lay on the concrete, her arms and legs sprawled awkwardly out.  There was blood everywhere, between and down her legs, on her arms and...

Natasha's gaze drew in, realizing that what she saw in the middle were not rags, but her insides.  She had been gutted like a fish...

 _"See, like this, Nata!"_ said Uncle Luka as he deftly filleted their catch from the stream.  _"The intestines come out with a slip of the finger."_

They were everywhere, and the blood pooled for over two meters.

Only Polina's face, it seemed, was left in tact, splattered with blood, frozen in agony, pleading for life in her death.  They had hurt her so, did despicable things to her and hurt her more.  She died in pain and terror...

 _"I did not say I wanted to die, Natasha, only that I did not want it to hurt_ if _it happened."_

 _"But it is_ not _going to happen!"_

Polina's face, her silent scream, seared into Natasha's memory, into her soul.  The dead girl's stiff hands grabbed Natasha by the arms, pulling her to her, crying out to her, begging as she tore into her heart...

Gaping, trembling, unable to shake herself away, Natasha could not move...could not leave her, the last...

The last...

She felt her hands drifting forward, ready to take her friend's hand, to comfort her, to hold her and tell her it was all right, that they would be all right as long as they were together...always.  

It was always better when they were together.

And now they were not...and never again.

The last thing she loved in the world.

The last thing she loved in the world was gone.

Three years ago, they had held hands on a patio and sung old folk songs with their friends to the delight of their parents.  For over two years, they had clung to each other for comfort and security.  Polina was the one to openly hurt, but she was also the one to smile, and the one to show affection or need, and to speak her fear...

She could feel Polina brushing her short hair, singing softly, the crow and the porridge, and the feel of her little hand, reassuring, and hurrying away when Mr. Dolina barked at her, or playing with Tosha and Mashika in her plush white room, with everything that was safe and clean and warm around them, and their mothers chatted in the kitchen downstairs, her brothers jostled with friends in the yard, and the world was theirs...

All dead now.  All of them, all of it, dead.

There was nothing left, nothing but a promise to keep Irisha well and to survive.  There was no love.  There was no comfort.  There was no warmth.  Nothing was safe.  Nothing was certain.  Nothing...

Her hand was still extended.

"Polina..." she choked again, but the sound died, too, in that horrible place.

Other sounds followed.  Steps, whispers.

Natasha went rigid, and her knees weakened--but only for a moment.  Her heart began to pump harder, readying her.

 _"Keep it tight, girl!  Accept and move forward!  Pity? Regret? Rots you from the inside.  Do what you_ can _do--leave the rest behind!"_

Polina was not moving.

_"The body is a shell.  The soul is eternal.  The body is weak and will die, but your soul? Keep it tight in you and it will keep you safe!"_

Polina was dead.

She was alone...and not alone soon.

The voices were nearing.  

Her eyes darted about to check the area.  There was nothing.

Nothing...

Natasha's hand swept out and grabbed the bag that lay abandoned.  

Suddenly a phaser shot ripped through the hot air, but she was quicker.  Whipping around the columns to the wall as other phasers shot out in return, she hobbled for the nearest access port and slid inside, into the dark and wretched silence.

* * *

"Natasha? Is that you Natasha?"

She stopped in the corridor, still clutching the supply bags in her hands.

Only when she stopped did those hands stop shaking.

"I heard you were hurt."

Natasha turned around and saw Mrs. Zlenko.  She was sitting in an access bulkhead next to her hovel, pulling connections out of a unit where it looked like she had hidden things, not a normal access port.  She had a pouch hanging over her shoulder.  It was full of over-worn tools, ones she and others had pulled from the refuse and repaired.  Giving her shaggy blonde hair a quick scratch, she glanced back again.

"You should rest!"

Natasha had forgotten about her foot.  She had not even realized she was in central One-East-One.

"Are you going home?"

She could only stare at Mrs. Zlenko still, but, barely feeling her body, she raised her chin slightly.

"Would you like to help me? I need help, and you will learn how to maneuver this circuitry.  You can someday do this yourself, to help us have more light.  And you need rest, I can tell.  You are as white as these horrible lights, poor girl!  Sitting with me will give you some rest.  Come!"

_Keep it tight, do all you must and regret nothing._

Her eyes caught onto the work at hand, and she moved up a step.

"Of course, if you must return to Teliga or feel unwell, you should go home.  Does your foot hurt?"

She took another step.  She barely felt the sting.  Glancing at the shelves, she set her bags inside the lip of Mrs. Zlenko's hovel then turned to meet the woman's eyes.

Mrs. Zlenko ghosted a grin and nodded.  "Come, Natasha.  Look at this.  It is an isolinear power conversion node--IVPV.  I am taking some of it from here to help Gregoriy Bawolak install into Two-East-Three, where they lost their corridor lighting after the raid.  Do you remember...? No, you were not here yet.  No matter.  Hold this and watch."

"Yes, Mrs. Zlenko," Natasha whispered, and her heavy chest filled with a breath as the teacher dug back into her work.  She blinked to dry her eyes and focus.  "I am watching."

* * *

_Next: Chapter 10. Release._  
 _© D'Alaire M., 2013_  
 _swiftian@yahoo.com_


	10. Release

_"I love you, Nataliya.  I will be with you always.  Do not be afraid.  Go!"_

Her fingers clutched the blanket, pressing it out, her fingers on the window.

_And they fell...and her unvoiced screams echoed in her ears...._

Her arm fell at her side, pushing herself away when they looked at the house.

_Fire was everywhere...everywhere...and she ran...until her lungs would explode, she would run..._

"Consort."

_Stopping...  Why was she stopping?_

She pulled a breath of cold air.

Jerking herself out of a heavy sleep, Natasha turned onto her side.  Grabbing her sheet in a fist, she pressed it against her cheek and squeezed her eyes shut in the dark room.  Swallowing, breathing, she slowly let go of the vision, pressed it down, put them back into place.  

It was long ago.  They are safe.  Turkana is gone.  The past is gone.  Time to focus on the now.

"Consort."

She had six reports she still needed to run through Data and filter down through Carlson; there was a tactical meeting at o-six hundred and a staff meeting at o-seven hundred.  On the way, she would report to engineering and see if they had taken out the PDMs and switched to the secondary EPS submaster flow regulators so she and her staff could run the next round of diagnostics.  Then she needed to see that the primaries had been serviced and reinstalled so she could run diagnostics on those as well.  There would be no time for meals that day.  The Enterprise C crew's presence and subsequent difficulties had run everyone behind on the reports Captain Picard needed so punctually.  Some of her comrades chafed at the constant flow of analysis, but Natasha knew that lives, or what was left of them, depended on their efficiency.

Her natural clock told her it was about oh-four hundred: Time to wake, time to begin reports.  Still, she hardly stirred in her cool but comfortable bunk.  Her body felt like duranium.

"Consort."

She breathed again.  The Enterprise C...  Lieutenant Castillo...Richard.  It should have surprised her that the first time a man aboard ship paid her particular attention, it would be inconvenient.  Not that it mattered, despite anything Dr. Miller had suggested, but he _had_ been kind, pleasantly forward, and maybe it had helped him, too, to have a diversion.  She hoped he would be all right.

She had so many reports, then a tactical briefing to conduct and weapons check.  Dixon probably would not begin as soon as she wanted it done.  He really needed to be in another department if he thought defenses could wait.  --But that was another issue, and she had already been ordered to let the issue go, as it was a very low priority.  She disagreed, but she would obey Commander Riker's orders.

She should get up, shower, outfit herself and go.

She furrowed her brow as she made her decision a third time.  What was that smell?

She knew that aroma, almost a citrus, but headier, more...encompassing.

"Consort."

Her eyes fluttered open to focus upon a Romulan of about her physical age, with a long, olive hood hanging off the back of her thickly braided brown hair.  

Natasha's heart shrank.

The Enterprises were gone.  Her past was gone.  She was supposed to be dead but was not.  She was stuck in the past.  She was sexually bound to a Romulan general...who had already enjoyed his conquest. 

Nothing but death was behind her now, and nothing but death lay before her...except for the others, for whom she must live, and then...nothing.

Cringing inside, she also remembered the woman above her, and her soft voice breaking the thick silence.  "Ivador," she said, a breath in the cool air.  She swallowed to wet her throat.  "Is it morning?"

"Yes, Consort," Ivador replied.  She was standing at the side of the bed, her hands folded on the waist of her plain, olive green frock.  She looked pleasant--thankful, even, when she bowed her head and softly said, "Jolan tru.  --N'ul lohg iglahar pah'rol cho, Havaln abajo.  I meet your day with honor to serve, Consort, and invite you to rise."

Natasha had caught up, but realizing she still lay as she was settled the night before, she did not move immediately when the other woman held out her arm.  "Is there a robe I can wear?" she asked.

Ivador looked puzzled for a moment, but thinking quickly, she moved to the closet and brought a light cloak.  Holding it up, she waited for her charge to put herself into it.

Shaking her head, Natasha finally rose and followed the servant's lead, bracing herself against the chill until the cloak was closed around her.  They moved directly to the bath of the quarters, where yesterday's session would apparently be repeated.  

Ivador first reached out and, gesturing for her charge's trust, motioned at her mouth with a tool.  "A dentifrice, Consort, if you would open your mouth briefly." Natasha blinked and did so and the servant activated the tool.  With a few flicks, her mouth was cleansed.  It was not unlike what she had been using since joining the Patoro's crew twelve years ago, though it left a different taste in her mouth.  Ivador pointed to the bath.  "This is kept on the basin shelf, there, when you desire to use it." Then Ivador gestured to the cubicle behind the bath.  "If you would like to relieve yourself, I will warm the stones."

Natasha nodded and walked around the basin wall.  She had found it yesterday, just a plain corner of the quarters without an extra wall for privacy in the event Ivador came around--not that there was any need for her to, but Natasha had noticed.

As she leaned against the wall unit, Ivador activated the bath.  Excellent timing, that, she thought, because she knew she was tense.  Mornings always had been for her, with her thoughts still half in the sleeping world, the images still fresh, undistracted by the busy day.  Now there were more images and memories to process, and not only the ones provided my her new employer.  Had she not posessed ample experience with acceptance, she would hardly have believed the last few days of her life.

With a sigh of relief, she looked around to find the ejection button before a sudden whoosh followed by a gust of warm air reminded her that it was automatic.  

When she came back and faced the tub, she saw Ivador, reduced to her tunic, tights and boots, standing with her hands outstretched.  Natasha turned to look for a hook and her cloak disappeared before she could slide it off herself.  She was then led to the center of the basin and she lowered herself to the small seat without Ivador having to say a word.  Rather, after what had happened since last she had been awake, Natasha _wanted_ that bath.  So she sat and waited for the water to get the remnants off of her.  Meanwhile, Ivador's face became pleasantly plain as she saturated the sponge with oil and water then proceeded to lave it over her.

Natasha closed her eyes as the streams of warm water rolled over her cool skin and the rush of the water echoed in her ears.  She let herself enjoy it that time, though.  Strange at it was to feel someone else running a sponge over her skin, it was good to feel the residue of the night before wash off, and the feel and smells of those oils, which were like a sweeter version of the scent in the room.

To that thought, she asked, "What is that?"

"Kib tree oil, Consort," Ivador answered.  "It is excellent balm and will improve your skin."

"I needed something, apparently," Natasha said ironically.  She knew she had not been the most diligent about keeping her skin as well-toned as some women did.  Even on duty during the hardest campaigns, Johansen and Plarri had been very careful to look relatively pretty.  Inexperienced with such graces save some awkward trials, Natasha rarely bothered to do more than rub some gloss on her lips after her assignment to the Enterprise.  Clean and neat remained a privilege to her.

"Your skin is...exotic, very fair, Consort," Ivador admitted, but then quickly added, "I mean, very...red.  I am unaccustomed to its quality.  You are the first of your race I have met, and my duty is a new one.  However, I do not see your skin as a terrible quality.  Only different.  Certainly, you are thought of as attractive among other humans."

Natasha smiled a little at the woman's backpedaling.  "I suppose I am...presentable," she said.  "Compliments were not a part of my job."

Ivador nodded and continued, her mouth straight and pressed together.

"So everyone uses that oil on Romulus?" she asked, trying for actual curiosity, though she in fact just wanted to hear another voice, and maybe learn something useful about her situation aside from the obvious.

Thankfully, despite her apparent embarrassment, Ivador seemed as desirous for some small talk, though she remained very quiet and quick in her speech.  She knelt before Natasha and began to scrub her feet, plucking up a stone to soften them.  "Not all use kib tree oil, no.  There are many other oils for different skins, and some are very precious."

"Precious?  You mean rare?"

"Yes, Consort.  We Romulans are very fond of the bath: Some cleansers are mined for at great expense when there is promise of excellent benefit."

"This is one of them?"

"No, Consort.  Though, the general did order me to use the finest extracts I could replicate for your maintenance, and so, among my other studies, I processed this for you last night while you dined.  It seems to take well already.  I will continue to watch its effect and adjust it accordingly.  However, if the feel or scent does not please you, I humbly ask that I be told so that I can find a more suitable balm."

Natasha stared at her.  That was a lot of information in itself--and nothing about the oil.  Rather, the earnestness in the servant's face said everything that her meaning had not.  "You really want this job." Ivador gave a single nod.  "Was your last one so terrible?"

"I have made no complaint about my duty since becoming a tevol'oc in the general's service." 

"Tevol'oc?"

"Enslaved in battle," Ivador translated.  

Natasha's eyes widened further.  "You're a slave?"

Ivador gave her an equally surprised look.  "Of course, Consort.  I would not serve one beneath me...." Stopping, she colored and added more slowly, "I apologize.  You were not born among Romulans.  You will quickly learn the caste and its protocols, and I must remind myself that this has not happened yet." She rinsed the stone and began on the other foot, that time without looking up.  "The general is an excellent contractor who requires only duty, respect and loyalty from all who serve him.  As I can deliver these objectives well, I have not mourned my place in any assignment.  And yet, I also do not mourn the loss of daily inspections of carbonite data wires."

"I guess you wouldn't," Natasha replied, her eyes turning down.  _The first word I learn in Romulan is the word for slave._

Her feet completed, Ivador moved quickly up the consort's legs with the sponge, between her legs and around her abdomen.  Rinsing and refreshing the sponge with another healthy pour of the oil, she continued to her ribs and breasts, and then around her arms.  It was quickly and respectfully done, and Natasha sat in a bit of amazement that the woman had not been doing that much longer than she professed.  But then, it was entirely possible--likely, even--that she was quite experienced and simply lying to her.

The servant's hand touched the back of her neck, so, remembering yesterday's procedure, Natasha stiffly leaned back and let her wash her hair.  Looking up at Ivador, she saw the woman's attentive expression as it matched her fluid movements.  Watching her further, Natasha could see that the thoroughness was more about her being careful and precise, further evidenced by the brief smile Ivador offered as she finished.

She looked thankful.

Natasha felt her sense of caution creeping up on her.  It always did when she wanted to think worse of things but her instincts insisted otherwise.

"Consort," Ivador said softly and took Natasha's hand.  Leading her to stand, Ivador wrapped her in a blanket-sized towel and, taking her by the hand again, led her to the dressing area.  She seemed to predict the dissent that time and gestured to the padded ottoman when it hit Natasha's knees.  Looking down at it, she noticed for the first time that it was shaped like an "Н," with a thick center and a fleece cover.  Ivador gestured to it.  "Your massage now, Consort."

She parried and shook her head.  "No.  I don't need this."

"It is what must be completed next before the meal arrives."

Natasha blew a sharp breath.  She had quickly tired of being called "Consort," as much as she quickly had begun not to care who was monitoring all of it.  "I already gave in.  I don't need to be softened up anymore."

"It is not a matter of need," Ivador stated carefully.  "And Consort, if I have done anything to curry your distrust--"

"I didn't say _you_ had." Natasha paused, wondering what, wrapped in a blanket on a Romulan Warbird with her "employer" looming somewhere above while she was getting very cold...  What was she was trying to say?  What was she trying to fight?  She knew the uselessness, but the urge was just too strong to resist.  "I grew up with just what we needed to live," she continued tightly, "and so I know what I need to survive--food, sleep and warmth.  The rest of this 'treatment' is not necessary, so you can tell whoever is giving you orders that _I don't need it_."

While the quick vent gave Natasha some relief, Ivador's posture fell and her facade of ease took on some certain unhappiness.  "I take it then, that you are as unaccustomed to receiving service as you are to the Romulan caste?"

"I don't _need_ service...and yes, I'm not used to it, too."

"My apologies, Consort.  I did not understand." Straightening as best she could, Ivador pulled her gaze from the floor and met Natasha's eyes once more.  "I hope I will be able to help you adequately learn both--where my duty entails, of course.  It is my duty now, after all, to attend you.  It my sole interest and responsibility."

"But why do I _have_ to have this?" she demanded.  "Are these your orders?"

"You are a consort," she told her, again with great care, "and so it is your place to receive services."

"Services to assist the subjugation of women," she smirked, more to herself, but she did not care if she said it aloud.

Ivador again looked confused.  "Are you of the belief that only women choose your duty, Consort?"

Natasha colored.  "Not anymore," she muttered, glad she had not made _that_ error in front of the general.

"I repeat, it is the consort's place to be ready to perform their duty appropriately.  This includes cleanliness and a meticulously-kept appearance.  These are maintained by regular bathing and massage, which are applied by the consort's servant, their personal assistant and guard.  The order for my services comes from _you_ , Consort, and for your merely being here, having had accepted the general's contract."

 _My place,_ she repeated to herself, feeling her stomach and heart shrink anew.  _My place to be ready to perform my duty._ And she wondered how much she would be expected to perform when the allowance for acclimation was spent.  "So all consorts are to be tended and prepared for their...?"

"Contractors," Ivador supplied.

"We are prepared for our contractors."

Ivador looked confused again.  "The sessions are therapeutic and a source of pleasure.  Your muscles will remain toned and--if I begin with you as well as I hope to--it will serve to relax and center you and give you strength to carry you through your day."

Natasha said nothing, though she did feel foolish--and then she wondered if she should, which in turn rebounded her anger.  But then she pressed it down and away.  There was no way to figure out that world in but a day, much as she wanted to--and needed to.

Ivador bent her head in a single nod.  "I recognize and appreciate your suspicions; however, I hope they will be assuaged when you understand I will never do you harm." She placed her fingers on her collarbone and bowed briefly again.  "By my honor, Consort--and yes, I admit, I can claim no trust from you this soon--I will care for you, and never betray you.  Those of our great Empire who drive us and lead us are at our best in stealth and circumspection, amongst each other and with others who would challenge those whom we follow.  Yet this is not so with a servant's bond.  Few personal servants would be foolish enough to betray one whom they serve, for they betray themselves equally.  Rather, I will protect you with my body should the need arise, else sacrifice my life in dishonor.  It is my _duty_ , Consort, a contract I accepted as you have accepted yours."

"Your duty...to take care of me?"

"To serve you, Consort, completely."

"And this is your source of honor?"

"Is _is_ my honor." The words were spoken like any simple fact; the Romulan servant's light brown eyes seemed to shine with hope.  She wanted her duty--a chance.  Natasha knew the look and the feeling so painfully well that there was no mistaking it.  A decade ago, she had used her chance to make something of herself and bring about a change for her people.  She chose to take Desha's advice and work to apply to the Academy.  Hers was a massive achievement, and her earned place was justified with slavish adherence to _her_ duty--and though she had served in a ranked system, she had been nobody's servant.

She pointed to the middle of the ottoman.  "Here?"

Ivador immediately reached out to rearrange the towel and help her charge lie down on the surface, her face resting between the top arms and both legs resting on the lower ones.  It was surprisingly warm, the smooth surface in fact quite soft.  It plied with her weight, cushioning her from head to toe.  As Natasha resolved herself to relax, Ivador opened a bottle of rose-colored oil and removed the cloak.

Natasha shivered at the change.  "Is it always so cold here?"

"You will warm with the oils, Consort," Ivador returned, rubbing the balm briskly between her hands.  "It is perhaps your bath and inactivity.  I cannot speak for the general's house, but the barracks at Rul'siat are similar in climate." Half of the cloak was returned to her lower body at that.  "Until you adapt, I will remain mindful to do the same."

Natasha exhaled a deep sigh when Ivador's hands found her skin.  The Romulan's strong fingers and the warm, aromatic oil felt far better than she had wanted it to.  Slow, drawing motions found each muscle in her shoulders and back and pressed a line along them.  With each return, she felt her muscles ache then loosen.  Her sore shoulders at first were pained with the firm pressure, but soon they grew flaccid, along with each arm, then hand, then finger.  “I doubt I'll argue about this again,” she breathed.  Her eyes were already closed.

If she had tried at all, Ivador failed to hide her amusement.  "Yes, Consort." 

"Have you done this for long?"

"Not for several years, but I served my elder sister during her convalescence for three years."

"Was she ill?"

"No.  She had been injured.  As the youngest in our family, I was expected to assist her recovery.  I was happy to do so."

"Is she well now?"

"She was exceptionally well when last I had seen her."

She said no more of it, and Natasha was finished as well, successfully resisting the urge to remark how lucky the sister had been to have such a sibling.

_"Come, Nata.  We will get home early and I will show you my new game._

_"And I will show you my new book!"_

_Yes!  I want to see what Mr. Sarinskiy has given you."_

_"Miss Yakura gave me this one."_

_"Even better!  Come!"_

She could still feel his hand around hers, large and strong, and see his beautiful smile beneath a mop of wavy blond hair.  She would have served him had he been ill.  She would have done anything for him...

_"Come, Natasha!  You should not have to look--"_

_"I already have!"_

...The dried corpse lay on its side, hands outstretched, mouth open, hair like black hay sticking out from the grey earth and skull like a memory of the shock of death.  She had fought her death.  

_"What?  You know her?"_

_"Miss Yakura.  She worked at the Yevak school."_

Her fingers had touched the viewscreen where she had accessed Miss Yakura's Federation file, as though she could close her mouth and smooth her hair, place the corpse back into the woman who had lived, and let her smile again, let her laugh again...

_"...Mr. Dolina, why is her body still...good?"_

So many had died, and so many faces now greeted her, smiling back from their place in time, one after the other.  All dead, their life cut away away, forsaken, family, friends, women, men, children: All born on Earth still had a file.  Natasha had found as many as she could.

She had found the living, too, the Kitaevs, the Seredas, the Kalins and Kaskivs...

"Your arm, Consort."

One after the other, falling before eyes that forgot little it committed to, so that she could be with them somehow, and never forget her purpose.

And she touched the dead, wondering...wanting...

"If you would relax your arm, Consort."

Natasha blinked herself alert again at the woman's quiet command.  Had she drifted off?  Had she not slept so hard that she had not remembered where she was?  But then, she _had_ been fatigued.  It would take a few days to catch up.

Ivador's fingers found her hand now, and she massaged it from wrist to fingertips, pulling what felt like every muscle out, then pressing it back to relax.  Natasha nodded then blinked herself awake again.

It would take at least a few days, and more for the rest.

There was no way to tell in the silence and without a chronometer how long it was to breakfast, but the massage lasted so long that Natasha almost fell back to sleep a couple more times before she was turned over.  Ivador was thorough and careful throughout, intent on her work to the point of complete immersion.  Natasha did not think to distract her again; rather, she was left wondering why she never had massages or other treatments when she had been on layovers.  She had had ample opportunity to receive it.  --But then, she knew why.  She could not in good conscience enjoy so much when so many behind her still suffered...and would again...and was now.

She was seven years old.

She could see the Dolinas' farm as clearly as she could see her hands, and Lev Dolina's old, haggard hands as they wrapped around hers, showing her how to use the old, beaten phaser Marko had brought back from Orvo, and she could smell that horrible cabbage soup that had nourished them as well as the citrusy oil now sinking into her body and being rubbed into her freshly scrubbed feet.  And Ivador's little smile was not unlike Anja's when she was set upon a task that was not entirely unpleasant, like showing the old books to Polina, who had only been starting to read when they came to that place, when Orvo fell, and their world was set aflame...

Natasha blinked herself awake again.

She was seven years old.

Still feeling limp and sleepy, drawn up from the warm ottoman, Natasha was wrapped in a shin-length, high-necked knit frock with a sash at the ribs that fell almost to her knees.  Then, seated at a plain, oblong table, her hair was coated with some cream, dried and pulled into a style she did not ask about; then it was pushed back with a band of thin chains, a couple of which fell down her back.  It felt a little funny to have that weight on her head, but she said nothing about it.  Obviously, it was how the general wanted his consort to be, and she assumed it looked well enough on her, judging by Ivador's satisfied expression.  She appreciated the soft stockings and warm slippers, though she had not been allowed to touch them.  Ivador was quick and silently insistent, and she finished the dressing in less than a minute.

Ivador, returned to her robe and wide sash, crossed to the front of the quarters and pressed the button at the door.  Within a minute, the table was dressed and set and their breakfast was delivered, this with a quickness and respectful efficiency Natasha could compare to nothing she had known, even during Commander Riker's snap inspection rounds.  Watching them work, Natasha realized she was very hungry.  She had not eaten very much the night before, and for all her years of going without much food, her presently healthy and muscular body had needs.

Following Ivador's lead, she waited until the staff had gone and the doors had closed to pull her chair.  Before she could bend her knees, however, she felt the servant's hand clasp her arm much as Tokarel's had the evening before.  She looked around to find the woman's small smile.

"I please you, Consort," Ivador said politely.

Natasha nodded.  She stiffly let the other woman guide her into her chair.  Easily, that was the strangest of the "customs" she had experienced yet.  Manners or a display of dominance?  Obviously, it was something reserved for her "place." Whatever it was, the pleasantry left a sick feeling in her gut.

Seated, she waited again as Ivador took her seat then looked at what had been delivered.  The dishes contained a thick mush with slices of orange-like...something.  She could not tell.  There was skewered meat of some sort with a green sauce and what was likely flatbread arranged on another dish.  Ivador then poured a tall mug of steaming liquid, which looked and smelled like a thick tea and set it upon Natasha's place.  Then she waited for her to choose something.

The room silenced in the bargain.  She could hear her blood in her veins as clearly as the afternoon before.

At last, she pulled a small serving of each dish onto her plate, instinctively more careful as the clink of utensils echoed off the ceiling.  Like before, the food smelled strong and savory without being unbearable.  Ivador dug into the mush and took extra orange slices, so Natasha tried that first.  She blinked with surprise.  The slices were not fruit but a rich, egg-like stream in what tasted like ground meat and roasted grain.  It was quite tangy but surprisingly delicious.  On the contrary, what she thought was meat actually tasted like a chewy curd with a heavy fruit sauce, roasted and pressed into a sliceable form.  Only the bread was what it should be, and at Ivador's silent direction, she mopped up the extra sauce with it.  It had a peppery taste.  Added with the tea, she felt like she had ingested a kilo of spices in but a few minutes of eating, but both her curiosity and her appetite were satisfied.

Ivador reached out to take a second serving when the doors swished open.  Utensils clanked upon the wooden table as Ivador flew to her feet and backed up to the wall, her hand at her collarbone and her head lowering to a bow.

The move was so quick that Natasha did not even think at first to see who had entered.  When she glanced, she saw the tall, black-haired form of General Tokarel standing two steps inside the door.  Thinking quickly, she too set down her fork and moved to rise.  But General Tokarel's hand gestured her to remain.

"You need never salute me, Consort,” he told her and let his dark brown eyes fall over her and her surroundings.  "You slept well and have been tended to your satisfaction?”

"Yes, General," Natasha answered, for Ivador’s sake more than her own, though indeed, she had been taken care of well.  The woman at the wall had not moved a muscle.

“Servant," he then said, though his gaze had not shifted.

"Yes, General," Ivador promptly replied. 

"Continue to prepare the preliminary wardrobe for Consort, informal daywear only at this time, in acceptable fashion and colors yet speaking of her kind." He gestured to the frock.  “Had I desired a Romulan consort, I would have found one at considerably less expense in the Capital directory." He offered Natasha a small smile.  "Also, her features: They are most impressive." He moved close to Natasha and reached out to slip his fingers along her jaw and cheek.  " _You_ , Consort, are most impressive.  Your gaze has not left me since I left you to your sleep, and subsequently found little for myself." He moved back a step.  "Accentuate Consort properly.”

"I obey you, General Tokarel," Ivador responded.

With that, he left.

Natasha barely knew what to say, now that there was a gaping hole in the room.  General Tokarel had at least one great gift: His presence was powerful.  His voice and touch remained heavy in her mind long after he was gone, through the remainder of her meal, the completion of their tea and the taking of hot rags to wash.  Ivador, too, said little, though Natasha caught her stealing glances at her, probably assessing what she needed to do.  If it was the truth and she was indeed new at her position, she probably had a lot to learn.

At last, the woman quietly asked, "May I ask your origin, Consort?"

Natasha was prompt about it: "Ukraine, Earth."

"I will adapt your wardrobe as charged as best as I am able.  I regret being too ignorant to do so initially."

Her words were tight, Natasha noticed, and her eyes were pointed straight at her remaining meal.  She looked embarrassed.  Natasha understood.  She too had been very wrong before her commanding officers, and it still stung to think about it.  "You can't plan for something completely out of your experience, Ivador," she offered.

Ivador turned her chin and blinked--a nod, perhaps?  "I will endeavor to outfit you properly, Consort."

Natasha nodded and found herself saying before she could think the better of it, "Don't change the slippers, though." Ivador's head popped up, her face brightening.  Natasha's lips flicked up.  "I like them."

Ivador drew a deep breath, unable to press down her responsive smile.  "I obey you, Consort."

At that, the servant stood and alerted the staff with a tap on her arm band.  Three Romulans in plain, olive tunics entered the quarters, one young man and two women, one of whom was the aide that had brought her to the physician and then to those quarters the day before: Deviar.  They immediately began to clean the room, remove the breakfast, collect the laundry, change the linens and restock the bath.

At Ivador's private gesture, Natasha remained seated.  "Their duty must be permitted," Ivador quietly informed her.  "They too acquire honor through their work, and will work to improve.  Your satisfaction is second only to the general's." Soon, she left her side and her soft-voiced orders could be heard.  Only certain soaps and oils were to be stocked, she said, and the clothes in the closet were to be recycled.  The linens were to be doubled and scented with something Natasha did not understand, and the ottoman needed recovering.  These orders were given all in the name of “Consort,” relayed by the woman who now charged the others as would a superior.  _My servant._ It was still terrible and unreal, and she was not the only one experiencing it--though likely with greater amenities.

She turned around in her seat.  "Ivador?"

The woman immediately stopped what she was doing and came to Natasha's side.  "Yes, Consort?"

"Have you seen the other people from the ship I was on?"

"I have not.  However..." Ivador looked quickly over and gestured to a young man.  “Tevol’oc has served them, Consort, and has said they are congenial and busy."

Natasha looked over at the person in question, who came when she gestured to him.  He lowered himself to a knee beside Natasha's chair.  Then she saw that he seemed little more than a child, but she did not distract herself too long with wondering how he ended up becoming a slave, and how well he might have been treated.  It still saddened her in all the ways it should.  "How are the others from the captured ship?" Seeing him blink at her words and seeing Ivador shoo off the others to their duty, she reminded herself to lower her voice and be direct.  "Tell me about their conditions.”

"The Federation block fares well, Consort," he dutifully answered.  His voice was soft and high and rang of innocence.  "They are officers under a watchful man and follow his orders.  They will make a good block.  Farm Steward Badock will see they are well trained."

"What are they doing now?"

"Today they begin to learn about the duties on the complex farm.  It will occupy them until we arrive at the homeworld."

"Their living situation is good?"

"Their quarters are generous and they eat great quantities of food," he told her.

She watched him answer that, then turn his eyes back to his work.  But he did not move, she noticed.  Must she dismiss him?  And why was he looking away?  "Tell me more, Lomik."

Lomik swallowed, trying for dignity while obviously untrained at it.  "Centurion Jovvok has been assigned to the complex farm staff on the homeworld.  He is...not as tolerant to aliens as General Tokarel commands."

Natasha's eyes widened.  "Is the Federation block in danger?"

"No.  The general orders: The Federation block is not to be molested in any manner.  But Jovvok prefers Romulans."

"You think he could intimidate them," Natasha supplied, suddenly hoping she wasn't endangering the young man by prying information from him.  As Ivador had suggested, she knew very little about her place.  Certainly, she could not predict what it was like for the others living there.

"We are taught how to disappear in our duty.  The others will learn."

She nodded.  “Okay,” she said; belatedly she added, "You can go now.  Thank you.”

Immediately the young man got to his feet and finished his duty of folding the spent linens into a basket.  He left with the others only a minute later, not looking back.

Ivador remained a moment more, inspecting the quarters with a careful eye before she too bowed and touched her collar.

"Consort, jolan tru."

Standing, Natasha stared at her, her lips parted as she formulated something to say.  Only a nod escaped her, though.  Ivador immediately backed up and exited when the doors opened.

The silence returned when the doors swished shut.

Natasha closed her eyes.  Full of food, rested, dressed and ready for the day, she could run a hundred laps around that warbird and not think about losing her breath.  But that was not something she could do.

It was not her place, now.  Now she was a kept woman to be toned by massages and oils.  Now she had necessarily to remain obedient to that place.

And she realized again that the room was cold.

And she knew it didn't matter.  Nothing should, now.  She was dead.  She had lost everything.

And she knew the general would be back for more of her later...more of a woman who could claim nothing, who was dead to everything.

She still felt a little sore from the last evening's beginning, though she could not say it was horrible or that he had degraded her.  She knew what degradation was.  What happened the night before was no more than an unfortunate agreement being played out, and only a little humiliating.

...Only a little, for he had been gentle and curious, and she _had_ done as he suggested and felt some pleasure at his suggestion.  However, this had opened a door of expectation for him.  She wished she had found a way around his simple command and that it had not happened, much as it was natural and indeed, it would make things easier in many ways.

She had felt it, his warm hands, her body's responses, and the warmth...

Her insides twitched anew to remember it.

No, it had not been degrading, for what he made it at present.  It would be sensible for him to work to earn her trust and give her enough to make her think he cared about her pleasure as well as his own.  How much of it was a facade and how much simply pleased _him_ was yet to be seen.  She would have a good deal of opportunity, judging from his quick appearance that morning, to see how far either limit went.

Natasha turned.  

Easily, the silence was the worst, followed closely by the chill.  The pacing worked off the latter, but her thoughts, crawling hard up upon her, had already proven extremely distracting, and she would slow or stop.  Then she felt goosebumps on her legs and she started up again.  Maybe more exercising would help.  She would have to see what the rest of the day entailed before deciding on how to effectively maintain her strength.

 _And why does_ that _matter?_ she asked herself, and then immediately answered, _Because it just does.  It is...something to do._

She ground her teeth and started around again, resisting the urge to talk to herself.  Prisoners in isolation often talked or muttered to fill their ears, but then ended up saying things they should not, revealing information that could be used against them.  Isolation had long been an incredibly effective means of punishment and torture.

But what would be the gain in torture when she had already given in?  Did they suspect she was more than she professed?  Had information that they wanted?  It was equally possible the general enjoyed watching how different stimuli--or the lack of it--affected a subject.  And what would happen if or when he tired of her?  He had pledged on his honor.  Was he worth his word?  Then again, did it matter?  Had she any choices?

She had stopped again.

It felt like but a few minutes had passed.

She was not accustomed to inactivity.  Even in her quiet times, when she could not sleep, when she could not put her memories to rest, she would at least be at work on something....

Her hand instinctively fell to her waist and her heart sank.  

It was not there.  

Thinking quickly, she deduced that it had been taken with her uniform last night and probably reclamated.  She had been so disturbed and tired that she had not thought to take it out, to keep it, that one thing she had.  

It should not matter--it did not matter--but she still wanted it...

_Keep it tight.  Keep it together._

She wanted it back.

_"People dead everywhere, Orvo and all your people's villages are burning down and you worry about a doll!?_

She still wanted it back, as much as she had wanted Tosha, all those years ago.  She rubbed her fingers together, feeling the warm metal in her memory.

_Focus on the now.  Now is all you have._

She started again on the circle.

She wanted...

"Stop.  Think of now."

She turned at the end of the room and came back again.

Her fingers rubbed together.

* * *

  
  

She figured that a slow pace around the entire room consumed about thirty seconds, more or less.  But it was close enough that she could make out how much time she was spending, and it was keeping her busied and away from the constant jumble of considerations she had already decided upon.

Thirty seconds...one minute...

_"Skulking around doesn't make you look stronger, Natasha.  Straight--and stride--long strides, shoulders back!  Carry yourself like a guard and they won't think about your age."_

And she realized that she had been slumping.  She fixed it immediately.  Crawling in tunnels and slipping around corners had given her an unconscious stooping habit in unsure times.  That too had been fixed, but it required reminders sometimes.  Every day, she had needed to be vigilant, about the way she looked, the way she moved, the way she sounded and the way she communicated.  Every day.  Every minute.

She was accustomed to that.  It was normal to her, now.

She could do it again, if she could only keep moving, never slow enough that they could catch her....

Another turn and she added a pumping motion of her arms to increase the activity and some warmth.  It was more effective than trying to exercise, which made her thinking more intense, worse so with the other stresses at play; it would not help her analyze the time, which she felt was very important.  She needed to know.  She needed something.

Eight minutes...  Eight minutes thirty...

_"I'm hungry.  When are you going to get food?"_

_"Ne zaraz."_

_"But I'm hungry now!"_

_"Tykho!  Wait for dark and shut up, you idiot!_

_"I'm not an--"_

_"Shush!  Listen...  Go in there!"_

_"What--"_

_"Go!  Now!  --Not there!  There!  Go!"_

She turned and started moving in the opposite direction.

Nine minutes...  Nine minutes thirty...

_"Go in there!"_

_"What--"_

_"Go!  Now!"_

Fourteen minutes...fourteen-thirty...

* * *

  
  

Forty minutes...forty thirty...

* * *

  
  

One hour ten and thirty seconds...

Natasha reached up and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.  She had let it go a little, and she had been planning to get it cut again, short on the sides with a little length at the top to comb aside, as she had kept it upon entering the Academy.  How Olena had laughed at her when she first cut it like that!  Even Natasha had felt a little bashful.  Not that she did anything with the top, but she had liked knowing it was there, that it was still blonde, like her father's and aunt's, a true strain of the Yaroviy family that for centuries had not been altered, and lighter still when she could be in the sun.

And she realized that it had been two years since she had felt real, unguarded sunshine.  Her hair had darkened, like it had been in the tunnels.

She had darkened in her heart since coming to the Enterprise.

Her hair had remained short since the morning Mrs. Dolina had sliced her dirty braids away and fed them to the garden, but she could remember so clearly how she and Polina would sit in their corner and comb each other's hair, slowly and carefully, softly singing some silly song....

But it was more practical that way.  She always wondered how some of the women on the ship could manage to keep their long curls pinned up fashionably when they were readying to go into battle.  Why should they care about what their hair looked like?  --Or maybe they did _care_ \--care about their appearance, because that was what they knew.  Natasha was fairly certain they had not had the same teachers that she had.

_Keep it tight!  Regret kills the soul as quickly as the clan soldiers will eat it alive.  Live for this moment--this moment only!  Now is all you own!_

And maybe she _had_ looked at those women with a touch of mild, useless envy.  Always clean and presentable, she had only rarely thought of making herself much more than that--and for good reason.

She still remembered Aunt Tatyana and her mother--and even Mrs. Kitaev as she had been before the fall.  Even after, always gentle and pretty.  She could not be so nicely arrayed, not like them, but her grace and goodness had been natural.

_Not like me, who had needed to be everything but those things._

Perhaps, yes, she had eyed those women and wondered...

...One hour twenty-five...

 _"The body is just a shell, a house for the soul.  What happens to it is nothing compared to what can happen to your soul.  The pain your body feels is nothing compared to the agony of a rotting soul, scorched by regret or evil!  That agony follows you to your grave and crawls through you like worms and maggots.  Survive, yes, but protect your soul above all other things.  Even death does not matter if what makes_ you _is still good!"_

Indeed, his lessons had been potent.  She lived them every day, and lived them now.

She lived as she did thanks to him.

She was alive because of him.

...One hour thirty and thirty seconds...

* * *

  
  

Two hours twenty-two...twenty-two thirty...

_"How long do you plan to hide?  --You cannot deny that you hide far more than you own."_

_"It's my right to keep my business to myself, as long as it interferes with none of the ship's business."_

_"Are you so certain that it will never interfere?  Can you convince me that it's not interfering now?"_

* * *

  
  

Three hours fifteen-thirty...three hours sixteen...

_"Dima says that dying under a phaser is too quick to be painful.  Even the fear cannot last long; they usually do not even have time to feel that for long."_

_"Then that is how I will die, if I get to choose it."_

_"You will_ not _!  I will never let anything happen to you!"_

She shook her head of the memories and made herself think.  

Three hours fifteen-twenty-two...

She had to have a plan.  It all had to be locked in and a part of her.

_Tatyana Ilyivna, thirty, unmarried; just survived Turkana and escaped to work on the Patoro._

The droning reminders inside her head stopped for a moment to count another half minute.  Then her gaze fell.

It was 2344.  That only allowed two years since the destruction of Orvo City.  _The fall,_ she mused, stilling to remember once again...  But then, she snapped back to what she needed to do--think up a lifetime she could remember with ease.  She would have had to have escaped a year after--it was easier to remember but a year--and worked on the Patoro for a year before wandering to Starbase 343.

That felt wrong.  Sighing, Natasha reworked it.  _Six months after the fall, a year and a half on the Patoro.  That sounded better, as it set her escape as after the database revision and a little after the last rebellion.  But why not have left Turkana immediately?  Because she could not--I could not.  Few had escaped after the final sweep through Orvo, and they lived near the Heights, when it still had a tube access to the landing yards fifteen levels below._

Natasha sighed.  The reality was that she did not want to relinquish it.  She could give a different name, she could give up her entire reality, but she could not give up what she had done to survive.  There was no way she could hide it, even there.

Then again, she could probably create any history on Turkana for herself and he would never be able to find out.  After leaving Turkana, Natasha had learned that the factions had been quarrelsome for over two decades before she was born.  She had learned from the Kitaevs that the leaders of the Settlers simply did not expect it would spread, and if it did, they had expected that the Federation would take care of it.  There had been clan murders and disappearances long before the fall, preambles to the final upheaval, which grew in volume over the years, and up to days before the fall.  Unbeknownst to the people in the districts, lines were drawn and sides were chosen.  The Settlers were not taken into account.  The Coalition, the largest of the five, had the Guardians on their side.  The Westlanders, Alliance and Aristons were loosely allied on the south end of the city area.

The Coalition, under the direction of a lieutenant called Nikon, dealt the final blow by releasing a toxic and fatal gas into Orvo's ventilation system.  The clan had meant to target certain areas of the city--areas populated by Settler leaders--but were obviously not as careful as they had claimed.  Half of the city's inhabitants perished immediately.  Whoever had managed to survive probably did not last long if they remained above ground.  The gas was somehow ignited, destroying nearly every structure in the city.  Whoever straggled out into the countryside was picked off like game by one of the other factions.

Three hours fifteen-thirty...three hours twenty-five...

While the Coalition claimed victory over Orvo's Settlers and Guild populations, reconnaissance teams had branched out into the country settlements and swept clean any more possible dissent, showing their power with a brutal series of slaughters and kidnappings.  The Settlers, their most vocal opponents in the last gasps of the colony government, were the first to go.  Guild and Circle were spared to a degree, but only if they complied and claimed no connection with Settlers, who were blamed for inciting the attacks.  The Guild knew better; Circle did not care, but were herded into the upper levels, anyway.

Unaware of those horrors but believing that the entire population had involved themselves in the revolt, the Federation stripped Turkana of colony status and cut off their supplies to try to make them submit to a more peaceful solution.  Unfortunately for the remaining residents, who had been forced to move into those tunnels for food and shelter, Turkana's stable weather and natural geothermal energy was more than enough to run all their systems and replicators.  The cadres, in control of all those systems, knew they could do quite well without the increasingly ignorant Federation, and on the broken backs of any who didn't follow them, those wretched survivors and deprived children--tunnel dwellers, all, within only a couple of years of the takeover.  No one was left in the countryside after four years, not that there was anything left to live on, there.  The entire landscape had been ruined.

Three hours fifteen-thirty...three hours thirty and thirty seconds...

Matviy and Roman were lucky to have been among those gassed rather than kidnapped to join the cadre and forced to fight.  How much more miserable would they have been--or could they have been turned?  The idea made Natasha ill.  Irisha was far too young to know how evil the cadres were; Irisha only saw them as a source of food and warmth, and only needed a lazy woman to sway her into believing their right and arrange a way to tempt her sister into following suit...and brutally, they did try.  They did try...

Natasha jerked her head, blinking the images away.

Matviy and Roman had been fourteen and twelve.  They had been old enough to detest the people who were ruining their world, and young enough to not be nearly as judicious as their elders.  The boys had spoken out against the aggressors and taught their little sister Natasha of their evil when their sweet-natured parents had tried to shield her from the bad-speaking men.  Worshiping her eldest brother as well as a five year-old could and then having seen that evil in action, Natasha never reevaluated her impression.  She would never turn.  She thought of her beloved family and how they were slaughtered every time she imagined she _could_ be tempted by the evil that surrounded her.

She thought of how her brothers must have died the few times she had been forced to consider it.  She wondered if their fate had been easier...or if they had suffered.  They said the destruction in Targo had been quick.  

Aunt Tatyana...beautiful Aunt Tatyana and the seemingly unsinkable Uncle Antonin had lived in the fashionable East Targo neighborhood, and her brothers were staying there until Natasha's parents could meet them, helping their aunt and uncle pack the things they would bring.  From there, they had planned to all go to the transport together.  That had been the plan.  Natasha still remembered bits of the conversation she had overheard the week before.  At the time, she had thought it was merely another vacation to her grandparents' house in Kovalivka.

They all were too late.  All residents in East Targo were killed immediately; a portion of the West Targo were not.  Some escaped, the Kitaevs and Seredas among them, and others were incinerated.  Those on the southern blocks of Darston, namely Uncle Luka and Aunt Ella, largely perished in the explosions following the ignition of the plasma lines.  That had always been an odd comfort--and even that they had died, for they would rather have suffered their deaths than be forced to live in filth, starving and sick, or, worse, into the cadres, slaves to those they so detested, and who detested them, but would use them to their will.

Three hours fifteen-thirty three...three hours thirty-four...

_"I should go, I want to go, but they will see me, Ilya....  Go straight through the garden, Nata, and through the long grass down the hill to the Dolinas'."_

Only later did Natasha understand how terrified her mother had been.  

_""They are almost here, now.  Go, go, now!  I love you, Nataliya.  I will be with you always.  Do not be afraid.  Go!"_

Whatever they had heard on the comm before turning it off had set them into motion.  They probably knew that Matviy and Roman were dead.  It was over, it was done, and yet Natasha ached to think about what they must have been feeling when their little girl was more concerned about her boots than the terrible danger they all were in.

The "bad speaking men" did not speak long with her parents.  They checked a PADD, barked a question.  Her father held out his hands and tried to smile, a gesture of peace and patience.  Natasha knew it well.

They had died in the midst of terror.  So had Polina.

Three hours twenty-eight...

Natasha slowed, but then forced herself to keep pacing...keep moving...  She had to keep moving....

Minutes after her parents were slaughtered, she had been the one to run from them, her braids slapping her neck, her red boots pounding into the sod.  She ran past her lungs' ability to hold air, past her panic, past her anguish and through her tears, dragging her burden for all her life's sake.  

She did not stop running for years afterwards.

And now she paced, around and around and around....

She really did not want to give that up, too, all she had come from, all that made her who she was, hard as it had always been to hide it.  She _would not_ give them up, despite the complication.

 _And now I have time to think of it as much as I want to,_ she understood unhappily.

Three hours twenty-nine...

Three hours thirty-seven thirty seconds...

* * *

  
  

Five hours, twenty-three thirty...

She had grown quite tired and a little dizzy from the circling by then, and she felt her heart despite the pace, but she was still determined to figure out the length of those periods of isolation.  They were on a warship; her day would depend on the general's.

Something told her, not to be too curious about what they planned to do with her unless she felt it was life dependent.  Just figure it out and keep silent.

Five hours, twenty-six...

The door slid open and she jerked and stopped.  Darting her stare to the hole in the wall, she saw Ivador come in with a small tray of food, two plates and a carafe.  The Romulan woman set the tray on the table as though she had only just left.  Hours had passed and it was like nothing to her.  But then, she had probably been far better diverted, Natasha thought angrily.

When Ivador rose from her bow, she saw her charge in full.  Immediately her face melted from its steady composure.  "Consort, are you unwell?"

Natasha was successfully snapped out of her indignation by the question.  "Do I look unwell?" she croaked; then she cleared her throat.  In all her walking, she had indeed resisted the urge to talk and hadn't wet her throat, and now her voice felt ridiculously loud on top of rough.

"Your face is both pale and reddened, Consort, and your expression was wild."

"I'm not used to being unoccupied."

"I see," Ivador said, as if that was all she needed to understand.  "We will eat, Consort; that should quickly return you to health and composure."

 _Returning me to health and composure will be useless without something to do--and a chronometer,_ Natasha silently returned.  But she asked for neither.  She looked at the tray.

Aside the custard-like concoction, cheese and yellow crackers, there were long-stemmed vegetables and two mugs of what looked like juice--though Natasha knew better already than to guess at what it really was.

Natasha flinched when Ivador took her by the arm.

"I please you Consort," said the servant.

The lunch lasted only as long as it took to eat, then Ivador and the noise that came with her was gone again.

Standing near to where she had been not a half hour ago, Natasha turned from the door and looked wearily at the path before her.  But with a breath, pulling her shoulders down, she put one foot in front of another and moved forward.

Thirty... 

One minute...

_"Matviy told me the clan soldiers steal souls!"_

_"They will not steal our souls, Nata.  They cannot steal what we will never give them."_

What is never given...

One hour, twenty-three...

_"Matviy told me the clan soldiers steal souls!"_

_"They will not steal our souls, Nata.  They cannot steal what we will never give them."_

And she wondered what was her soul, now, when all she was was gone...

_“I will be with them…"_

...Two hours fifteen...

Where would she go?  Was there a place for her?  Was there truly a place for her?

_"Yes, I will be with them all when I am gone…."_

And she swallowed her heart hard, exhaled sharply and spun on her heel.

_Focus on now!  Now is all you can hold!_

The same wall faced her yet again.

_"They cannot steal what we will never give them."_

...Two hours fifteen and thirty seconds...

* * *

  
  

Three hours, forty and thirty...

Ivador came in again, now with a large tray, which she set upon the table then bowed her head.  "Consort, jolan tru."

Natasha nodded to her.  Her heart was beating hard that time.  The memories, crawling over her very skin, had grown increasingly vivid, flashing behind her eyes as if utterly new.  She wished she could blame this on the isolation.

They ebbed a little at the distraction, however, and with another reminder of her company, they slipped back to rest...ready, but quiet...waiting...

Oblivious to this great activity, Ivador continued to focus on her, so Natasha gestured to the tray and asked, "What is this?"

"I am to teach you now, Consort, how to properly wash tea.  It requires some time to achieve proper technique, and the general's sister will certainly give you excellent guidance, but my grandmother taught me when I was young, enough to teach you our way about it."

Her temples began to pound at the switch in mindset and disappointed expectations.  "Tea," she said flatly.  

On the tray was an oblong glass bowl with egg-shaped feet, a cloth, a bag of brown and red leaves and what looked like a long ceramic spatula.  The carafe was filled with steaming water.  She watched Ivador set out the bowl, pour the water into it, lay the cloth over it and sprinkle the leaves on top of that.  Ivador then proceeded to fold the cloth into a long sail with precise geometric movements.  The tea began to seep through the cloth, its color swirling into the clear water around it like a blooming flower.  Mesmerizing as it was, it seemed a people as advanced as the Romulans might simply replicate a mug and save a lot of time.

"Do I need to know this?" Natasha asked.

The servant's brow rose.  "As consort?  You will eventually be _expected_ to know this at least twice daily, at first and last meal.  Tomorrow we will begin with the Romulan language, as well.  The general requests you learn the Rul'siat dialect first.  When you have mastered it, you will quickly learn the Capitol dialect."

"Why not start that today?"

Ivador's eyes turned down.  "I have yet been unable to collect the proper materials," she confessed, "as the dialect is not native to me, as well.  Yet we have the opportunity to learn the washing of tea and the language that accompanies it; more time can be spent on our studies tomorrow."

Natasha accepted that with a blink.  _You know you are thankful for any diversion, even tea._

The servant then mixed the whole of the dish together and pulled the cloth away.  Tipping the dish to the side, she filled a glass, and then another.

And the image of her Aunt Tatyana reaching out to touch the handle of her fine porcelain teapot, and she laughed and chatted with Natasha's mother and Aunt Ella, always so gentle and cultured, elegant and assured....

She held out her hand.  Suddenly she noticed that her skin was smoother, probably a result of what Ivador and rubbed on it in the bath.  Was she truly going to be that person?

 _Yes,_ she told herself. 

And she reached out to touch the side of the carafe, willing her fingers into gentleness.  How different it felt to do it like that!  she remarked to herself.  So accustomed to taking hold of things to maneuver them in some fashion, a brush of her fingertips was an entirely new experience.

_Yes, you will do this._

She left her hand drift down to the bowl and felt its warmth.  Then she met the other woman's gaze.

"Show me again, Ivador."

The servant saluted her with a nod.  "I obey you, Consort."

Immediately, she set into another service.

An hour later, she had lost count of them, and while the company was gratifying, the repetition was unrelenting.  While Ivador did not seem to mind, Natasha felt unnerved and tired when they had succeeded in washing liter after liter of tea, which she then learned how to serve properly, again and again, and then drink properly, again and again.  Even after being proclaimed adept, they began again as though they had just started.

"First sip the glass--try not to touch the rim too much with your lips, but just pull the liquid in--then place it directly before the highest ranking person at your table.  You will know in time whom that will be; only know that in any company, the general, as your contractor, is served first unless he commands otherwise.  When you set the service, let your hands fall away from the sides as though they were layers falling from a sheath."

Natasha watched Ivador make an example of her.  "Why do I have to drink their tea?" she asked, surprised that she had not thought to yet.  

"To assure them it is not poisoned," Ivador replied simply.  "It is not always assumed, but the tasting is customary."

"Sensible," Natasha nodded and reached out for the carafe yet again.  It was empty.

Ivador retrieved another pitcher of water.  "We will wash another, Consort."

The promise of isolation that would follow nearly twenty more preparations of tea was almost as much of a relief as the toilet.

When she came out, Ivador had already packed away the tray and carafe and cleaned the table.

"Consort," she said as quietly as she had when she had entered.

Watching Ivador pleasantly bow and take herself and the tray back out of the doors, closing her in again with those yellow-brown walls and unending silence, Natasha let the silence envelop her, took a few slow breaths, wondered...breathed again...

Her foot came out and moved her, and then the other repeated....

Thirty...

_Tatyana Ilyivna, thirty, unmarried..._

One minute...

_...escaped after the final upheaval..._

One minute thirty....

_"Why are they doing this?  Why do they kill us all?"_

One hour three and thirty...

_"No one gets to choose for me!  And you should not let that happen, either!  You must fight it!”_

She stopped.

 _What am I doing?_ she asked herself, staring around at those plain, din walls, her chest rising and falling beneath the heavy cloth.  What...

_”You will know better someday what you are truly able to do, Nataliya."_

"What I can do..." she whispered.  "What I can do..."

She made her feet move once again.

* * *

  
  

Four hours forty-eight thirty seconds...

Natasha pulled a sharp breath and looked futilely at the walls for want of something to look at.  Only a day and it was already working on her mind.

Every day was going to be like that.  She knew this.  Every day...

_Tatyana Ilyivna, thirty, unmarried; parents and family killed in early incursions on Turkana and escaped after the final upheaval to work on the Patoro for a year and a half before leaving and looking for different work, which she did not find.  That is when she met Captain Garrett, who offered her passage._

That was the plan, and it was true enough and constructed enough that it would work and she would not easily make mistakes.

Her eyes shot to the wall when she turned again and she averted them sharply.  

Four hours fifty...

The doors swished open.  Natasha looked at the door.  Ivador entered.  

"Consort."

"Hello, Ivador," Natasha responded, and then realized she'd said it very softly that time, almost as softly as she had used to be.  Turkanans had come to speak like that to simply avoid notice and to keep their details from spreading.  Desha had trained it out of her public presentation, but Natasha had always preferred to be quiet.  She wondered if it was something Romulans did in their private lives, too, and if so, why; or perhaps the general wanted that from her specifically and so set up the room and Ivador to encourage it.  The general and Ivador were very soft spoken, but before, in the cargo bay, the Romulans were speaking full-voiced, with no hint of hiding what they were saying.  Of course, that probably had purpose, too.

Though she seemed to notice something about her, Ivador did not address the consort's appearance when she came through the room.  Her arms were full with a rich gold-green cloth; a small satchel hung from her wrist.  She bowed her head, taking time to do so before moving again.  She delivered her burdens to the dressing area then came back to Natasha.  Gently taking her by the hand, she brought her back to the bath.

Natasha furrowed her brow.  "Is it morning again already?"

"Only nine shuti have passed in this katila," Ivador replied pleasantly, perhaps amused by the question but too respectful to show it.  Perhaps realizing this, she added aside, "There are twenty shuti in a katila, Consort.  We prepare you for the general's presentation and evening meal at this time."

Natasha felt her gut shrink, but shook her head at it and the prospect of her schedule.  "All this bathing and preparation when I have done nothing," she muttered.

"Certainly, you have earned the respite.  You appear colored again.  May I ask, Consort, what you have been doing?"

Natasha broke into a grudging smile without thinking.  The servant would of course be observant--and there was no way to know how she must look by then.  She _had_ been pacing in a cool room for hours.  "Walking around the room, thinking." She knew her activity could not be a secret, so confessing it would not add any jeopardy to her situation.  "It keeps me warm."

"I see," Ivador replied.  She did not indicate if she believed the consort, but rather began her bath without comment.  Turning, she caught Natasha's hands before they could find the hooks on her dress.  "Please allow me the duties I have been assigned."

Natasha tried not to be angry when she let her hands drop.  She was angry, anyway.  “Do you _have_ to do everything for me?" she demanded.

"As we discussed this morning, my duty is to care for you and prepare you for _your_ duty, Consort, so...  Yes.”

"I've been independent most of my life," Natasha protested.  "I know how to take care of myself."

Ivador paused.  "Assistant told us that you gave yourself as consort to the general in return for the lives of your comrades."

Natasha's eyes turned down.  "I was just a guest, Ivador.  They were not my comrades.  But it made no sense to execute them--and me, too--when they did nothing to deserve so much pain.  They had done their duty and tried to help people to whom they had no allegiance.  It might have been foolish, but it was an honorable act.”

Ivador did not argue the point, but asked, "Had your life no other purpose that you could give yourself so willingly?"

_"Where am I supposed to be?"_

_"Dead."_

"Not much, no."

"So you give yourself willingly to this new life."

Natasha exhaled, feeling the point sink in.  “Yes.”

"Consort, I will assist you in accustoming yourself in what ways I can," she told her, "but you must allow me to teach you your place for that to happen.  Even as I learn, so must you.  That you have been independent is admirable, and I would like to think you have been an honorable woman of great purpose--for one who, as willfully free, must move and act.  But you have agreed to be a consort, and its duties and procedures are wholly unique to all you have known."

"Obviously!" Natasha snapped.  "You think I haven't understood that?  I have been alone here all day thinking about exactly what I did to my life.  Don't tell me about _unique_!"

Ivador lowered her head.  "Forgive me," she whispered.  "I intended no insult, Consort.  I beg you forgive my inexperience in my place and allow me another chance to behave more respectfully without report to my superior."

Natasha halted, staring and the form before her.  Her ire was still hot, but her sharp eyes detected a shrinking motion beneath the servant's deep olive dress and veil.  _Does she expect to be struck?_ she wondered first, knowing that posture so well, sighing a tight breath, and then another, more resigned.  "No, Ivador.  You should be the one to forgive _me_.  I had no right to attack you for being truthful."

"It is not my place to speak to you as I did."

She touched the servant's chin.  Ivador jerked and froze, but gently, Natasha raised it enough that she would look at her.  "Between us," she said, "I hope you _do_.  I want you to be honest with me and tell me what you think, and you're right that I'll learn more that way." She paused, collecting her words even as she continued to check her tone of voice.  "I've been alone most of the day, Ivador, after everything that's happened, and that's left me...tense.  I'm used to being very active, physically and mentally.  It's been difficult to think that this kind of day is going to be my foreseeable future."

"Yes, Consort." With a deep breath, Ivador straightened herself again.  "And I must remember that, too.  I will be more patient as we learn and master our new duties."

Natasha nodded and dropped her hands.  Ivador carefully unhooked then removed her dress and took her into the bath as she had twice already.  She did so more gently, this time, with slow movements and a calm gaze that checked her charge's face regularly, reassuring her.  When completed, she took Natasha back to the table and massaged her.  Conversely, the job that time was more quickly done, though no less thorough, and the oils Ivador used had a rich, pine-like scent to it that absorbed well.  When she stood again, Natasha felt all the stiffness in her shoulders and back melt away.

Seeing the other woman's curious face, Natasha offered a small smile.  "That felt very good."

Ivador straightened and spun to retrieve the gown she had brought.  "I serve you, Consort."

Natasha's smile lasted a few more seconds.  For having been so hard set on the Enterprise during the increasingly tough campaigns, she had sometimes forgotten then, too, that just a little praise could go a long way with staff.  If Ivador was a charlatan, she was an excellent one.  Her entire presence seemed to improve with those few words.

When the servant came back, Natasha's eyes grew wide; then they closed as she felt her body cloaked in a thick, silky fabric, deep green with dark gold stitching along the hems.  The neckline was cut as low as it could possibly go without being useless; it too was stitched with gold with a geometric edging that lay softly against her fair skin.  The support beneath pressed her breasts up enough to fill the dress to the hem--and with far more shape than she had imagined possible.  The long sleeves fit to her wrists, and the rest hugged her ribs then fell smoothly to her calves.  It was easily the nicest thing she had ever worn.  Matching slippers followed the array, leaving Natasha to shake her head a little.  That much opulence for dinner and sex seemed incredibly excessive.

But Ivador was not finished.  Seating her on the padded stool, the servant took a round sort of comb and activated a mechanism inside it.  Dabbing some liquid onto the brush then combing it into Natasha's hair, she then set into a rhythmic pulling and turning.  Natasha smiled privately at this, imagining, though she herself could not see it, what those more feminine crewpeople would have thought to see their security chief so adorned and styled...

 _Former chief,_ she reminded herself--and then chastised herself, _Not chief!  Tatyana Ilyivna!  Worked as a cargo guard for eighteen months after escaping Turkana.  Thirty, unmarried, orphaned in childhood during the early hostilities..._

Breathing deeply, she composed herself again.  Her servant had set down the brush.

Fluffing the consort's hair with her fingers, Ivador then took a thin paintbrush from a tray and dabbed it into a small, brown tub.  "Look directly at me, Consort, and try not to close your eyes." 

Her charge locked on her, Ivador traced the perimeter of her eyes with slow, careful strokes, then moving back again to repeat the move.  After checking the line and allowing Natasha to blink, she then drew out a line at each end.  After a couple of minutes, the servant was satisfied with her work and so moved to the other eye.  Natasha could finally lower her head after five minutes, a little sore and not happy to think _that_ was going to be the standard from then on.  Selecting a larger brush, Ivador dabbed a peach color onto it; this in turn was spread on her eyelids to her brows, then a similar tone on her lips, which dried quickly.  That done, Ivador took out a larger tub and dipped two fingers into it.  Rubbing the balm onto her fingers, she then reached out and stroked it over Natasha's face.

"The vrarrv oil will tone your skin," she explained softly, quickly finishing Natasha face and moving down to her neck.  "It has been used for ages at Kiarrgor.  It will soften the quality and smooth its color."

"What's Kiarrgor?"

"Where, Consort." Ivador dabbed some more oil on her fingers and began to work it into each of Natasha's hands with quick, gentle strokes.  "It is a colony deep within the Empire, inhabited by a simple but dutiful people.  The planet has several resorts and activity destinations, rather popular among Romulans from the capital.  My..." She paused, her face fading slightly.  But then she committed to finish, "My ancestors built our house there many hundred of years ago, when the colony was first formed.  It is my homeworld.  My parents in fact had been vrarrv artisans."

"Are your parents still there?" Natasha asked.

"No," was Ivador's simple answer.  "They are dead."

Natasha bent her head briefly with understanding.

"They perished with no question about their honor," Ivador went on.  "I can complain only about its prematurity."

"I understand." Immediately, she locked down the quick rush of feeling that still found her when she thought of her own parents.  She had long accepted that predictable response, and trusted her equally ingrained coping mechanism: _Live for this moment.  Focus on what is within your sight, what happens now.  You cannot change what has already happened..._

"Consort?"

She looked up.  "What?"

"I have finished.  You may stand." Ivador studied the woman before her, pleased with the result at first, though her brow furrowed slightly as she continued to examine her.  "Are you well?"

"Yes.  I was...remembering something." She shook her head and stood.  "Nothing that has to do with anything now."

"Yes, Consort." Ivador turned to set away all the materials she had used and neaten the space.  Natasha twitched to help her, but reminded herself not to bother, lest she hear another lecture.  She knew she should *not* care--indeed, she would not were she there for herself.  _I would not be here at all were it only up to me,_ she harped to herself, growled a bit then turned to go into the living space.  

The swish of the lush fabric against her thighs slowed her pace.  Though graceful, she realized how heavy the dress was, and with further examination in the full lights of the main room, she saw the tiny stones woven into the threads on the hems and the variation of weave, which gave the green tone a kind of background.  It grew more exquisite in her eyes the more she looked at it.  She then could not believe that she was wearing something so grand.

It _all_ was unreal.

Her heart began to hammer.  She wished she could run.  Run fast.  Run hard. 

_"Polina!"  --"I am behind you!  Run faster!"_

_"I cannot run faster!"_

_"You can!  I am here!  Run!"_

Her muscles ached for heat and movement, but all she could manage was a shudder.

Her duty.  Her life...

_"Help me do my duties, to avoid bad people and their bad ways, and to resist evil.  Help me live a serious, good and holy life...the life Mama and Tato would have wanted me to live....  Keep them happy in heaven, in peace.  Please let them be there, so I can come to them someday."_

Her eyes rose to stare at the plain yellow ceiling as the whispers of her childhood voice filled her ears,a dn then she was there again, standing beside the ragged girl who knelt at the tomb with a scrap of paper in her hand.  And the yellow ceiling was not unlike the ashen sky of Turkana, and the cold was not unlike the chill of that late day.  And her heart ached as if not a day had passed, and longed...

_Please be there.  Please, do not be what so many others have thought, just a figment of need for the living.  Please be what Mama and Tato believed.  For I will be there soon...._

She wanted to sprint, but she could not move.  The thick silk lay like duranium against her ankles.

_I will come to them, all of them...if they are there..._

She felt her chest ache as her eyes closed against the ashen sky...

_There is nothing else for me to hope for.  Please let that be there, that one last thing--_

"Consort."

Everything stopped. 

Snapping around, she found herself not a meter away from General Tokarel.  She had barely noticed the door, though the sounds of the servers quickly grew loud in her ears, like a rushing as they whisked the plates, glasses, linens and condiments onto the table.  They lit candles and brought in serving bowls, and now she noticed it all.  

_Where was my mind?_ she asked herself, still half in the place she had left.  But she collected herself all the same, managing a slight bow of her head.  "General."

When she could feel her heart again, she felt a little weak-kneed--another foreign and unwelcome sensation that she forced herself to dismiss as the remnants of the massage.

His steady appreciation of her went unchanged throughout the table's preparation and Ivador's finishing in the dressing room.  When the woman slipped behind them and stopped, Tokarel raised a brow Natasha's way and prompted softly, "You may dismiss your servant now, Tasia."

Natasha glanced over.  "Thank you, Ivador," she said and bit her tongue before she could add a very Starfleet address.  Maybe the general was testing her again?  She had to be careful, always.  "You can go now."

"I serve you, Consort," came the woman's response, a breath in the air before she slipped out the door behind the servers.

"Excellently done," said General Tokarel.  He still had not moved.  "However, you need never thank your staff for performing their duty sufficiently--as you must never give thanks for duty which is expected.  That they remain in their position is enough a show of your gratitude."

"What happens when they fail?" Natasha asked.

"This would depend on their level of failure and their reasons," he answered.  "Some are simply not designed for the work they are given.  Others are treacherous.  The former earns reassignments when they show an honest desire to work.  The latter are served their death, sometimes a slow one.  Many levels lie between.  There are few set consequences."

"It makes sense," Natasha granted.

"You also do not address your servant by name in front of company or other staff," he added.

"Why not?"

"You give her rank that she does not own, which may cause conflict or suspicion among her peers.  Certainly, in private, it is more comfortable for some to address each other familiarly.  Those of rank who are not defined by their service do so exclusively.  Public manners of course are and must be appropriate to one's place."

"You call me 'Consort' always in front of the others," she remembered.

"With great respect," he replied with a dip on his head.  Then he smiled.  "I hope I do not annoy you too greatly as you learn our way.  My research tells me the dominant culture among your kind has not practiced a caste for several centuries--a millennia ago in some regions."

"Yes," Natasha said, feeling her indignation prick up at his observation, and she wondered how diligently he had been studying humanity that day.  "We learned that all people are equal to one another and should have the right to succeed and to their independence."

"Hmm..." Tokarel did not seem at all bothered by her retort, but did take a moment to examine his answer.  "Precisely how independent is any individual within a society, Tasia?" he queried.  "Certainly, the people you came from have rules, mores and manners they all must follow to be a part of their society.  You are not hedonists, nor anarchists; you have a military, with position and purpose, and there is a social structure, however vague it seems from my cursory examination.  Likewise, your education has only begun, so I will tell you, and soon you will see for yourself: No Romulan is denied an education; no Romulan is restricted from intellectual discourse.  They simply have different ranks and rules they must follow within that rank.  Indeed, I possess a quantity of slaves; however, while they are not given an income, they are entirely cared for at my expense, and I defend them through all the means available to me.  The product of their work earns their keep--my income, given to support them." 

He turned his gaze to watch her process that information then continued, "The only difference I can see between the Romulan caste and Federation rank, particularly its military rank, is that our bottom caste, rather than languish in prisons or drift amongst the wilds of your kind, earn their physical liberty through productive labor and revised education.  Most do not desire it, but work well and try to honor their place.  Some are born into their rank and learn to desire more than their rank grants; with promise and excelling dedication to the Empire, they may rise well above their parents.  I know of two senators born of slaves, in fact.  

"I grant you, not all masters of their property are honorable: Some are despicable, some are rightly rebuked, their property removed and reassigned; some are assassinated by their own kin for these deficits.  But any people may have beasts who abuse their power.

"Without social structure, Tasia, without some government of factions and groups, there is only chaos.  Though I see many faults in it in comparison to the Romulan Empire, I do not find the Federation chaotic or impossibly foolish."

"Though its people are free," Natasha pressed, mainly for she couldn't argue with the rest of what he had said.  She knew all about societal chaos--and that among those who had been Federation citizens--and she appreciated his admittance of problems in the Romulan system.

"Freedom is a highly misunderstood concept," the general replied.  "Even I am not a _free_ man.  I too am bound by my rank and its many responsibilities.  I would be executed as swiftly as any slave or traitor would I betray my duty--or I certainly would choose it rather than live in disgrace, as other of my close acquaintance have done, extending and prolonging their shame for whatever purpose they claim, good or ill.  Indeed, I would never allow it.  I work diligently to continue in my place, honorable and strong against those who would seek to destroy me and tarnish my family." He tipped his head again.  "I admit, however, to having ready access to the benefits of my labors and no desire to forsake them."

Natasha's lips closed.  

"Your array is beautiful, Tasia," he clarified, gesturing to her with a small sweep of his fingers.  "Your servant has fitted you well.  Is it comfortable, your gown?"

 _The gown you will drop on the floor,_ Natasha silently returned.  "Yes, it's very nice."

"I have left orders with Servant to be certain of your comfort.  Have anything presented to you sent back when it is otherwise." With her nod, he at last moved to take her arm and lead her gently to her seat.  "I please you, Consort," he said softly as he helped her down.

Without wanting it to, the words put a quiver in her gut.  She could smell his cologne when he came near, and she remembered how it had filled her nostrils when he had moved on top of her...  She closed her eyes and forced her mind to clear until he seated her and moved away again.  And she did not thank him that time.

They ate quietly a slightly spicier selection of foods, though in all, it was savory and satisfying.  The "mivvur," as the general defined it, was a heavy, peppery custard baked around a fowl, which itself was indescribably herbed and coated with red gravy.  It all was as soft as butter when cut and boneless.  The chewy dark bread sopped up the sauces as though they'd been specifically made to do so.  The heat again was not bothersome as much as simply ever-present, and the wine in fact made it taste even better.  Watching the general take his generously, Natasha could only conclude that it all was indeed designed to go together.  She was far from a connoisseur, after all.  

And she couldn't help but think it was... _pleasant_ in there just then.  The good food was one thing, but the general's quiet, easy tones and intelligent conversation were as interesting as unnerving.  What was his point?  Would the mannerly discussion end at Romulus, when they would be locked entirely within the compound?  

She still did not have the mind to demand these things and more yet, though the warrior in her wanted to face the problem directly--attitude she learned well from Desha because she _should_ be so assertive there, and she took that lesson to Starfleet with great success.  They liked her brash and forward manners.  It was a freedom of expression she took full advantage of throughout her seven years among them.  But that too was gone.  Rather, like the child she had been on Turkana, she knew it was better to watch and wait from within the shadows: Wait for the opportunity to act.

Unfortunately, the general seemed to know some of her hiding places already.

"I have been told you continue to ask about the others," Tokarel commented as he reached for another serving of mivvur.

"Yes," Natasha answered, coloring.  "Is it all right that I do?"

"Certainly, you have my every permission.  They are the people for whom you made your commitment and thus to whom my honor is partly bound." He plucked up a portion of bread.  "I must be curious as to why you feel the need to ask a member of the lowest ranks.  Why should you take their word above mine?  Does your reasoning spring from your belief in the glory our slave staff must sacrifice?"

Natasha frowned, unable to tell if he was being facetious.  "Maybe.  I might need to think about that." Again, she wondered who had told the general.  Then she remembered: The room was likely monitored.  Easily, the silence and isolation was making her careless--and in just a day.  That was more humiliating than being kept for sex.  Still, she was curious.  "Who told you I spoke to Lomik?"

"Lomik himself," the general replied.  "He is a simple child, but a dutiful one."

"You even keep child slaves?" Natasha accused, glad to bring up that topic and darkly curious to see how he could explain _that_.

The general did not satisfy her expectations, however.  "His parents had no choice but death for him," he informed her.  "Discovering him to be mentally deficient, they could only maintain their respectability by disposing of him.  However, having had the boy for eleven years, they had become attached to his life, and so requested my assistance.  He remains among my house staff under Orrild's care, and is comfortable there.  He being taken as a slave, his parents and siblings could maintain their standing while allowing Lomik a full life to his limited potential.  They visit him regularly, and they are excellent allies." A slow smile spread across his face as he watched the new consort process that.  "Our ways are very different, Tasia.  You will find a Romulan has a reason behind every purpose--and often a well-planned one.

"That aside, I believe you have learned something extremely important this evening.  Do not think that because they are also a slave that they are an ally.  The staff I send you may be trusted to a degree; however, you must always face your encounters with your eyes watchful and instincts alert.  A Romulan with any sense is an excellent agent of deception when they desire it for any reason: It is not considered disloyal to betray one in order to serve a higher good to the Empire--which may be rationalized in many fashions."

Her fork still suspended in mid-air, she asked, "Do you think the others could be endangered?"

"My ship is safe," he assured her, "and that you ask after the others makes all the staff know you are watching.  This granted, asking a base slave rather than relying on the word of your contractor or, at lowest, your servant, implies a weakness in your position that you cannot afford when we come to Romulus.  Even if you do not trust _me-_ \--which would be foolish, though not surprising--you must not show it.  Let them believe you expect me to care entirely for your expectations.  If you must send out for information without my assistance, use your servant or my sister as your agent.  The farm steward, called Badock, can be applied to for information through them."

Though there was much to distrust in everything there, Natasha did not mistake his advice.  For what little she knew of Romulans, she knew they had been-- _were_ \--extremely clever; she had been wrong to think that because the others were on her level rank-wise, it didn't mean they would be "on her side." That didn't mean Tokarel was, either--which was precisely what he was trying to tell her.  She had to be careful everywhere.

 _None of us are free,_ she reminded herself.  The difference was, Tokarel and the others were used to living like that.  It was their culture.  It soon must be hers again, she knew, the constant watchfulness and consideration of every consequence.  At least that much was not new.

She spooned another serving of custard onto her plate.  "I understand."

"Enculturation requires time.  I suspect you are a quick study, however.  Indeed, your people on the whole have done well in impressing me and correcting some preconceptions I long had held."

"How?"

"Certainly in the realm of courage and stamina, I am impressed; your people's valor and self-sacrifice have been extraordinary.  The Starfleet ship's challenge complimented my victory exceedingly, as was your giving yourself to preserve those few survivors of the battle.  Few humans would have done so with such dignity as you have displayed.  While it has been served in different ways, I still must recognize these forms of valor."

"Must?  It that another more with Romulans?"

"Hardly," the general replied, not happy to admit it.  "Some take a narrow view of accomplishment, that it comes only through battle or political maneuvering--which of course I believe extremely important.  However, it does not utterly possess fortitude.  Rather, I appreciate all forms of courage, and I am not ignorant of the greater meaning of what you have had to relinquish in making our arrangement.  Were it not completely honorable and necessary, I would not consider binding such strength and intelligence into the bottom caste of my household."

Natasha furrowed her brow at his mixed message.  "If you're so impressed and think it's a shame we're captives, why not just set us free?" 

He set down his fork and replaced it with his glass.  "Ah, Tasia, I had hoped you would continue to be able to discuss these matters without succumbing to a childish attitude."

She stiffened silently, but kept her face.  "I think it's a valid question."

"Hmm, yes, and you also seem to be a relatively wild creature.  I am unaccustomed to your sort of woman...though it does not displease me.  Your forthrightness, while rough-handed, is refreshing." Leaning into the back of his comfortable chair, he sipped his wine slowly.  Once she had made herself relax into her meal again, he said, "As we have discussed before, Tasia, it is the custom of Romulus to use defeated parties as slaves.  While I do recognize the abilities, the vanquished person's level of skill rarely decides their future.  They are kept and given useful work or used as decoys.  The alternative to these uses is public execution, which, I assure you, has great use as well.  Your desire for the first option is the cause of you and your people being brought to Romulus to live rather than die."

Natasha exhaled a slow breath through her nostrils.  "Yes."

He leveled his gaze at her.  "I did not need to make this arrangement with you, Tasia.  I do so now with great effort at making it a propitious situation; for your acceptance and resulting compliance, I will take great pains to uphold my honor while making it less repulsive to you." He paused to let that thought take hold; then he added, "I assure you, no other officer in my memory would do what I have done." 

"Then why do you?" she asked, curious again.

He paused again, holding her in his unblinking gaze before answering, "Because something about you has captivated me--you, like your namesake, far above, circling, searching, silent...  When I heard that other one speak your name, and I saw you, I could hardly believe the coincidence." He paused, seemingly unable to break free of her attention, and then continued, "You had stood unafraid when the others were exhausted and uncertain, even in the face of execution.  You seemed unconquerable even in their defeat, which would take you with them.  I could see in your eyes that you have withstood much; I did not feel you deserved the end that Rovrek had desired for you--and I readily admit, as well, I was not inclined to give such a small-throated man any apparent approval--and so I conjured the offer you had the sense and courage to accept.  I truly did not know whether you would, but I felt it was worth the minor risk to my dignity.

"With your commitment, my honor now asks that I treat you and your people well, because I can.  All I ask in return is your respect--which, yes, I fully understand must be earned for it to be true--and your obedience.  In the latter, I believe that should not be a great difficulty.  However, while your rank is indeed considerably beneath my own, I do not wish you to be a slave, Tasia--not at all a slave in the way your kind apparently thinks of it.  While respectful, and with exposure to finer culture in time, I will always expect you to remain utterly honest with me.  I will never lash out at you for the truth, only perhaps--" he smiled "--attempt to persuade you otherwise, when I disagree." 

Natasha did not know whether to return the grin or not, but she had a queer sense of understanding him--or at least what he chose to show her.  A slight turn of the lips did escape her, though, when she said, "I guess I can't blame you for that."

"And for what _can_ you blame me, Tasia?"

"Nothing," she admitted.  But then she thought about that.  _I can blame him, yes--for setting in motion a peace for the Federation and Klingon Empire that will save billions of lives._ Her chest fluttered as she brought her gaze up from her soup again to find his deep brown eyes, which resumed their steady examination.  _And I too am a part of that.  I too have affected this end.  I can blame him for saving our lives and guaranteeing a future, at least for them..._

She had not felt so lost since she pulled her bags into the Dolinas' basement that first and terrible morning.  Even when traumatized, starved, beaten and violated, she had not felt any situation as worthy of despair until that moment.

 _Am I_ meant _to be here?  I_ should _be here, live like this, with him?_

She felt her nerves prick up and her instincts sharpen.  But to her great relief her well-trained controls kicked in.  _You cannot live wondering how every move will affect the eons.  Think only in the moment; now is all you can control._

She continued her meal, drawing a slow sip of the wine--more carefully, too.  Or maybe, considering what awaited her, she should pour another full glass.  --But it was dangerous.  She could say things she meant to hide.  She had to stay alert.

Her attention returned to the general, his long hands and tiny smile.  _Never forget, too, that he knows exactly what he does, good or bad.  You are in his world, and you must follow; you must comply because that will keep them safe.  Never forget that he watches you, and that he too, as all Romulans, by his word, has a plan._

One of those plans was steadily nearing.  She could not help but try to guess if he'd take her on the table again or try something else.

The latter won, though in much the same manner as the night before.

The plates were cleared away and the table cleaned, and after taking his time to complete his wine, he finally said, "Come to me, Tasia.  Let me see you."

With a deep breath, she stood and moved before him.  Immediately yet gently, his attentions focused on her: touching, caressing and tasting through the lush fabric of her beautiful gown.  A pull, another caress, and he tasted and touched her skin.  Feeling the contacts ricochet through her, willing herself not to draw away at the sensation, Natasha drew a deeper inhale; his spicy cologne then filled her nostrils, darting about her senses for a moment.  The warmth of him struck her, almost as much as the night before, and his deliberate movements.  It all felt as unnervingly good as the night before, but without the mystery of what would come next...and she hated and felt it as much as she did before, too, when he at last eased her gown off of her arms and it fell to her ankles.

He stood; gazing down into her steady stare, he untied his tunic sash and trouser band.  Removing those clothes then reaching out her capture her fingers into his, he led her to the middle of the room.  "I have thought of little but you today," he whispered and pressed himself to her, warm olive skin to fair and cool.  His hand slid smoothly over her back and shoulders; the other slid around her hip as he nuzzled her ear and neck, detaching her undergarment and brushing it away.  As before, he did not kiss, but he did taste her skin and make it clear that he was ready for her.

 _Do what you have to,_ she told herself, breathing his scent.  _The body is a shell.  Survive…_

This, however, was far past mere survival and she knew it.  Only dignity suffered just then—and not even for the acts she must commit, but knowing what would come of it, what he would make and encourage.

Some time later, her body slick with perspiration and her breaths coming in long and steady draws, he brought her to the rug near the seating area and entered her again.  The rug, she now knew, was soft and warm, and his body was far warmer after what seemed like an hour of his ministrations.  Hiking her knees up to brace her ankles on his shoulders, he steadily moved into her, heating her, touching her--like the night before, making her feel all the more the sensation caused by the friction and fullness.  And she stopped wondering how it could happen, only knew that it was despite her loss of worth, despite her emptiness and despite--

"Touch me, Tasia," breathed Tokarel against her neck, "if you can.  Let me feel you."

She did.  Reaching up, she grasped his arms, unconsciously pulling him closer and her legs more closely up.  He pressed even more deeply for it, stroking and caressing her tight, slick muscles.  Small gasps began to escape her as a pressure tickled her insides, and she found herself wondering what might happen next.  She felt as though she were on fire, and yet she wanted more of that, and she cursed herself for softening, and she cursed her body again and again for being able to receive what that man was putting into her...

But even that was set aside; even that didn't matter because she _was_ there, and he was driving into her, touching her, holding her, warming her and making her feel things she had only mildly felt before, if ever.  Her first experiences were of terror, and then foolishness and humiliation.  Later, her attempts at intimacy were awkward and relatively innocent, a desire for companionship more than real sexual desire.  

This was different.  This was _sex_ , a desirable act of sex: This was what made those people want it.  In any other place and time, this would not be a chore--though she did not fool herself there, either.  While lean, attractive, communicative and apparently solicitous to her pleasure even while attaining his at her expense, he was still the military commander who had snared her into service and could have them all killed if at all displeased.  He would be a warrior first, always....

Grinding into her with short, steady strokes now, an entirely different sensation flooded through her gut and between her legs, deep within her abdomen.  She clutched his shoulder and squeezed her eyes shut despite his preference otherwise.  She could not keep her eyes open and make herself let go.  She could not look and let that feeling spread and grow, then focus again, growing tighter, and...

"Khavah, Tasia!" Tokarel gasped against her neck as he thrust once more into her.

Natasha froze in his arms as she felt his warmth add to her feverish body, and she blinked to realize it was over.  The feeling inside her died with it--and well it should, she knew.  She _should not_ enjoy such an act, much as he had sensibly suggested otherwise.  Shrinking, shuddering, her hands fell away as her legs lowered to an awkward sprawl and her eyes opened to his tender, concerned face.  

Tokarel touched her cheek, stroked her hair as he extracted himself.  Then, looming over her, he examined her expression.  As he caught his breath, a look of understanding came over him.

"Forgive me, Tasia," he whispered.  His fingers slid down her neck and over her moist shoulder.  "I was unable to pleasure you properly.  This is not what I had desired.  I will continue to make every effort...but not tonight.  You are tired."

She stared at him, but no words came to mind.  What _could_ she say to that?  Her body was throbbing, their heat was about to make her pass out, and he was finished after such sustained passion and sorry for it.  Of course, she had not been focused on _her_ pleasure until the end--or at least not at peace with it, not accepting the idea of something coming of it until the end.  So she said nothing, nodded a little, uselessly, and waited for him to decide what to do.

His arms slid around her again and, moving himself to her side, he lifted her from the floor.  As she had the last time, she clutched at his shoulder, off her usual balance, but the indignity was over soon enough.  He placed her in her bunk and covered her warmly.  But then he stayed for several minutes, caressing her hair, slipping his hand beneath the blanket to press against her belly and lean down to nuzzle her shoulder and neck.

"Tasia," he whispered to her ear, "rest and be strengthened."

When he moved away, she closed her eyes, and she realized that again without the activity and his warmth, her body quickly chilled again.  The blanket soon did its work, but her feet remained cold, keeping her awake long after the general had dressed and vacated the quarters.

The emptiness resumed, too, even as the last few hours filtered through her memory.  Breathing, closing her eyes heavily, she consciously relaxed, starting with her neck and shoulders, pressing down, then her arms and back, hips, legs and feet...  And then she repeated it.

 _"Khavah!_ he had exclaimed as his heat all but enveloped her.  And now she could feel nothing about it.  It just was, and there was nothing she could do about it, not in that moment nor any other.  

Only habit at that point told her to fight it, while her better senses told her it was useless and not to be stupid.  Those senses had been winning all along, which kept her alive, but it left a powerlessness that was...familiar.

It was beginning again.  She would have to relearn everything.  Again.

_"An empty death; a death without purpose."_

Natasha rolled over, her eyelids heavy, blinking away her heartache.

 _Were they all meaningless in the end, when all was done?_ she asked herself.  _Or would there be something else, something more?_

Why _was_ she still there?  She was supposed to be dead.  Could Guinan have been wrong somehow?  Could something have been confused?  Or did death have more than one meaning?  

One could be dead while living.  

This, Natasha knew painfully well.  She had lived in death more than once...given she had ever lived in life.

There was a meaning in that living death, Natasha reminded herself.  If The Enterprise C crew perished, she would easily end it all.  But she didn't want them to perish; a long as they had a home to go to, she wanted to see them go home.  It was why she had lived, and why she would live, and do what she needed to do.  So perhaps the emptiness was acceptable--necessary, even.  It would keep her quiet, watchful; it would keep them alive.

* * *

  
  

She knew her servant was there before she woke, and yet she did not move, but waited a mere few seconds after expecting the sound...

"Consort."

Her eyes opened, but despite her expectation, she did not feel she had awoken in the correct place.  For a moment, she imagined her quarters on the Enterprise, though no surprise found her reality that time.  Maybe with a few more mornings, when it became less and less recent a memory, she would stop.  She needed to forget it, forget their faces and her duties, forget her comrades and all she had learned there.

_I can do this.  I will do this._

It was the fifth morning.

Eventually, she would stop the useless counting, as she had stopped counting the minutes and hours.  _Was that yesterday?_ she suddenly wondered.  Not that it mattered as much as anything there.  The daily schedule made this easy to do.  Each day was so precisely divided, and each task so precisely measured, that Natasha could already sense when Ivador would appear through the doors, and when she left, she could already prepare herself for the long stretches between appearances and start again thinking herself into that new life, that new identity, that new purpose, while all the others were gone.  Each period of isolation had been a lesson in that, if nothing else.

Exhaling at her pessimism, she chose to focus on the business at hand.  Ivador was there as she had been each morning, draped in olive and saluting her with a bow a touch to her collar when Natasha's attention turned to her.

"Jolan tru.  --Nvil lohk korrol chov.  I meet your day with honor.  Do you remember the reply, Consort?"

"Choviir ag horahk tru."

 _Today rises well between us,_ she repeated silently to herself.

"Excellent!  Your trill and tahk-ib have improved already.  Do you think we should work on the more difficult sounds today?" 

"It will help me at least sound correct." She knew this from experience.

"It makes a thorough education easier," Ivador added.  "But more, proper pronunciation is extremely important, so speeding your acquisition will benefit all involved.  I am glad you want to learn." She held out her hand and waited for Natasha to take it.

This time, Natasha did so without argument.  She already knew what would happen and why.  She was still sleepy, though, half stuck in that other place and with her habit of being mentally on duty at all hours, her daily regimen and work with her staff, their faces in her mind as she remembered them, their voices still clear.  As they crossed the room, she reminded herself that purging them immediately was not going to happen, and so they circled with all the rest, far away and just behind her.  They were followed by those farther back: her people, her family, the ones to whom she belonged--those memories she had secretly willed to remember lest they become dull in her immediate and busy present.

She had long been terrified of forgetting anything about them.  She had spent countless time, whenever she could, looking them up, finding what little remained of them, reading their stories and hearing their music, viewing their images and learning their lives: The Kitaevs, the Dolinas, the Seredas, Alexander Teliga, Yelena Badurak, Daryna Zlenko--so many she had left behind and promised...

How sincerely she had promised!  

_"Lieutenant Yar.  Thank you for coming.  Please sit."_

_"Thank you, Captain, but I prefer to stand."_

_"Please sit._

They would always be with her.

And she felt herself whispering the words, the oaths of a child, dreams and hope she never dared to speak loudly enough for anyone's ears.  She felt her sounds soften throughout her time in Starfleet, trills tickle her tongue behind her lips and the soft aspirations that she felt was so beautiful about her mother tongue, and she was often noticed rubbing her left fingers together, praying without icons to touch.  Of course, she never told them that.

She shook her head to herself as Ivador took her to the back of the quarters.  First using the toilet, she listened as the water was activated and tried to focus on the shock of noise to quiet the sounds inside her.  Unfortunately, it didn't work that time.  Such distraction was an unusual state for her, and so she pressed herself to keep her wits and emotions in check.  Coming back around to the bath, she found the servant setting out the oils and sponges on the basin wall.  "What is 'jolan tru?'"

"Jolan tru is the universal address of a Romulan.  The remainder is Rul'siat dialect.  It is a gentler speech, easy to grasp and the dialect of the general's native region.  I learned it in very little time.  Later, you will learn the Capital dialect, which all Romulans learn.  It will come quickly."

"I see."

Natasha stepped into the bath at Ivador's guidance.  As before, when the gentle but thorough wash was done, she moved to the table with but a gesture for her massage.  Once again, she almost fell asleep under the strong, warm hands of the servant, but she was roused with a grumbling of her stomach and a gentle tug on her hand.  Again, her nails were filed and buffed, and again she was dressed in warm, smooth fabric, now awash in red and dark brown, draped low in the bosom and wrapped around her ribs, from which the length fell straight to her ankles.  Below that were silken ankle slippers.  Again, they ate, and she ate well that time, likewise knowing what would follow it if all remained the same about her day.

It did.

Four hours, fifty minutes...

_Tatyana Ilyivna, thirty..._

With her pacing practiced and forcing her analytical side to keep her sane a while by droning her revised life to herself, Natasha counted about five and a half hours she was left to her own devices in the little room--maddeningly silent, chilly and thought-scraping hours before Ivador briefly returned for another meal then left once more.  

_Parents killed in early fighting; remaining family picked off until the cadre insurgency in 2342...two years ago, when the city fell..._

She devised this new history with a solid dispassion that had long been her savior, and she repeated her thanks, as so often she did but now more than ever, to Mr. Dolina for training her so well.  It kept the weakness of mourning at bay, even when restlessness, inactivity or a flare of anger tempted her; it made unpleasantness just a part of that moment, none other.  It had kept her from requiring professional analysts when she got to Starfleet--rather, they saw her as strong, quick to learn and resilient, which was just what she wanted them to know.  Further, dispassion helped her let go and stick to business.  She had been thoroughly convincing, even convincing herself whenever she needed to own it absolutely.  They had known nothing else until...  

_Even then, you recovered from it,_ she reminded herself.  She had worked hard to return to the path she was determined to follow, precise in every word, now, more able than ever to say what she needed to say and do what she needed to do to achieve her objective.

_"What about you, Natasha?  What is your happiness?"_

She shook her head sharply.  Of course, he should have known that.  She had answered him truthfully, but she had not liked that he had to ask.  Was it, after all those years, not obvious?

_"...never show any of them but what you want others to see.  This will protect you.  This will save you.  In this life, you will have to do things you do not like, but if it keeps you alive?  Do it.  You know your soul."_

Could Mr. Dolina have known how effective his lessons had been on little Natasha, the most eager of his students, the most desperate to survive and the only one to actually achieve that aim?

Somewhere, far away, he would kill himself after helping his wife to do so.  They would do this soon.

* * *

  
  

On the seventh day, she had stopped pacing.  She did not know why.

 _"That was excellently done, Ensign,"_ he had told her, his otherwise unaffected face peering down at her work.  _"You have come far with the modifications.  Lieutenant Garner will be impressed."_ She had thanked him.  It had been such a challenge, and so it had meant so much to her after a difficult first six months to finally make an impression there.  She had been so fortunate to land that assignment...

Fortunate.

All but two of the people she had embarked with had survived her first year on the Enterprise.  But the captain had been kind, and patient, and he had been the rock they had needed, a proof that there was some permanence there.  He had been a comrade, a friend...for as much as that could be.

 _Forget,_ she ordered herself and swung around for another lap.  _It never happened.  Those are not your memories._

She could see them continuing to pound their shield perimeter--shields that were failing after the onslaught.

 _"Lieutenant!_ he had barked--but why was he bothering her?  She knew her job.

 _"I've got it!"_ And she had.  They would pay.  They would all pay.  They took everything, they had slaughtered without reason.  They would die and she would serve them their deaths and watch them scream into their unholy eternities.  _"I've got it!  I have them!  --There!  --Another!"_

_"Lieutenant!_

_"I have them, Captain!"_

Silence.

Cold, creeping dread.  And silence.

_“Your well-being is the only peace I know now, and knowing that I have helped to protect the people I care about makes me feel worthy, that I have a purpose…and I will do this as long as I am able.”_

_"And what happens when that ends, Natasha?  When your duty is longer there?"_

Cold.

 _Feeling_ that silence.

And yet it wasn't utterly so.  She heard the ship, soft tugs and whooshes.

_"What will you do when that duty is completed?"_

_"I will tell you when it happens.  I can only think for today.”_

Once day onto the next, one hour, one minute...silent...

 _"Now is all you own,"_ he quoted her, and the care was in his face as much as was the sadness they shared, though on both, he had remained silent, as had she...

Silent...save her heart, her blood, beating in time.

Alive.

She did not know how long she had been there before her servant came for her, but she started at the sound with relief.

Ivador came with two servers, lunch and a respectful "Jolan tru."

"Jolan tru," she quietly replied, moving toward her.

* * *

  
  

Approximately three hours of isolation digested Natasha's second meal and partly worked it off while she continued to think herself into a woman called Tatyana Ilyivna, who had thirty years, had been born on April eleven, 2314, in the traditional Earth calendar, whose parents, Fedir and Olivia, had been killed in the early scuffles, whose family had perished there in the following years, and who trained and worked briefly on a trade ship following her escape.

Just as she began to get tired with herself--a good sign the revision was taking root, she decided--Ivador then returned with a tea tray and, on the side, what looked like PADDs and a small box.  Natasha had to break her eyes away from that prospect of something else to think about.

"Jolan tru," she responded when the servant greeted her.  "Are those new lessons?"

Ivador brightened.  "You sound eager, Consort."

"I am...though I admit, I've been bored, too."

Ivador smiled.  "I will not delay, then," she said and placed the tray on the table.  "But first, we may like to wash the tea, if I may suggest, for we will be speaking a good deal.  Will you like to attempt it again?"

"Yes, I would," Natasha replied, remarking to herself how she apparently was up for _any_ challenge that day, as long as it was diverting.  She hardly blinked when Ivador took her by the upper arm and "pleased" her into her seat for the third time that day.  Natasha's eyes were already taking apart her task step by step.

Her task, her duty.

Her back straightened and she reached out, remembering to place her fingers on the dish rather than grasp it.

A few hours later, Natasha immediately realized the potency of the isolation in another sense.  After awkwardly yet at last successfully washing their tea and serving it, Natasha was set into an endless repetition of basic Romulan noun and verb clusters.  She was to learn how sentences were constructed and given some vocabulary before setting into the challenge of noun declension and situational shifts in verbs.  Already fluent in two languages, East Unified and Standard, and having a good understanding of a third, Klingon, Natasha had quickly understood that Romulan was not going to be the easiest one.  

It did fall off her tongue well, though, were Ivador's praise was to be believed.  Many of the sounds and conjunctions had cousins in her native tongue and were welcome to her; some others would require more work.  She began to think about speaking Unified again, though she knew the change would be noticeable, even with translators.  It certainly would make her more comfortable and loosen her tongue after years of being largely Standard-speaking.  But then, that was the problem.  She should not relax.  She had to be careful.  She must never let down her guard.

Meanwhile, she must learn more about rank and how one rank spoke to another differently, a society of strict ranks, extreme deference and yet ever-present betrayal and caution.

"You will be judged by your ability to discern ranks, and to behave and speak accordingly.  You will know a rank in public by their colors," Ivador went on.  "In the most general sense, the lighter the cloak, the higher the status of its owner.  A farmer's cloak will be wooden and a base slave's the color of rich earth, while a prelate's is grey and a senator's light sand, almost the color of the building they inhabit.  Few people dare to pose outside their caste, even with purpose in their deception."

"What purpose would that be?"

"Infiltration," Ivador answered, "intelligence gathering, assassinations.  All are known to happen, and never casually, nor loudly."

After that first primer and appreciating Ivador's candor anew, Natasha found herself excited by the challenge.  She knew she would need those challenges to keep her mind at rest--or at least successfully distracted from the looming awareness she had already tried not to obsess about but knew she should remember: What if they found out about her, what she was from?  In a society so well-honed to secrets and lies, would they not expect them of her and want to root them out?  Of course, how much did they know about humans to expect of them what Natasha did?

_"I have a deal for you."_

_"You?  Make a deal with me?  What the hell can you offer me?"_

Nothing would compare to what she had done.  Nothing...  And she could lie, kill and hurt, and she could make them believe whatever she wanted them to believe, for she would do anything to attain her purposes.

Even upon its failure...utter failure...

_"I will wreak vengeance enough for us both."_

She had remade herself for a purpose, and had continued with one.  She would again...

And yet she knew her soul.  She knew it all too well....

She closed her eyes and breathed.  _Now is all you own.  Stop.  Focus._

Moreover, noun declension and sociology was a much more useful topic just then--and certainly, it was easy to keep on that task.  In fact, the isolation following the long lesson helped hammer in everything they had covered; she heard it echoing in her otherwise undistracted mind well past the point of redundancy.

* * *

  
  

"The balms improve your skin," the general commented that evening as he refilled his wineglass and then hers.  Nearly finished with their meal, he selected a small piece of bread to wipe into the remaining gravy on his plate.  "While exotic, it is lovely; however, there is better tone, now.  Does the application invigorate you, too?"

Natasha stared at him for another second before nodding.  She had just spent the last hour trying to keep her beautiful but very long sleeves out of her food.  She did not complain about that, however, but rather had been fascinated by the detailing on the hems, ornate, orderly and rich gold and green....

Blinking, she remembered his question.  "It's relaxing," she finally answered.  "Ivador does her duty well."

"Servant," Tokarel corrected gently.

"Nih'orr," Natasha repeated and drew a breath to save her patience.  "Nih'orr has done her duty well."

He smiled, still watching her.  "You do not like being corrected."

She did not look away, though she did feel slightly uneasy.  There was an Earth saying about men undressing women with their eyes.  More precisely, General Tokarel _disseminated_ her with that steady, warm brown gaze and tiny smile.  While she felt no malice in it, it picked at her nerves for all the reasons it should.  The steadiest observers, she knew, were the readiest victors.  "I learn; I can't complain about that."

"But you are humiliated when I must be the teacher."

She shrugged.  "Sometimes," she admitted.  "I'm accustomed to knowing what I'm doing.  Sometimes I just don't agree, but I have to accept what you say."

"You are permitted to disagree."

"But it's also in everyone's best interest that I comply."

"Compliance and agreement must not always share a room.  I value truthful information for making wise decisions.  For that reason, I do not desire automatons to serve me, Tasia.  I require respect, but also personal honesty.  These are rare items to be gleaned among Romulans; however, it is possible to be had.  It is even more possible, I hope, with you." He leaned onto an elbow, holding her gaze entirely.  "I want you to be powerful, Tasia, and to act upon your desire, to not be a creature of pity, but one of respect and bearing, holding proudly your place and unafraid even in the face of death.  I want you to be the woman I was initially drawn to proposition, always." She gave him a look and he laughed.  "Yes, of course, as it serves my needs for you to own your rank in my employ, and yet I desire you to serve yourself as well, and remain _you_."

Reaching out, he touched her fingers, and with a motion, he turned her hand over to face palm up.  His index finger stroked it.  "You have worked hard in your life; you have worked with your hands."

She held his gaze, feeling that touch in her core.  How powerful such a simple contact was to her!  "Yes."

"And yet just by the nature of your reply, I know there is more within you, a depth and, if I may assume so much, a life you do not live, and yet desire.  Is this true?"

He would know instantly if she lied, there, for she had felt her response fill her as he spoke.  "Yes."

"You had needed to live as you had."

"Yes."

He blinked a nod then continued, "You deserve pleasure, Tasia; you deserve to have your body served.  You have earned the privileges of your rank."

She did not reply that time.  He had said that several times already and had required no answer.

"Do you believe you will adapt to these new ideas I present you?"

"Again, I'm able to learn."

"You desire to learn."

She nodded quickly.  _What is he getting at?_ "I like to...  Yes, I want to learn."

"Then you will be patient with me when I feel it is necessary to teach?"

Her eyes closed briefly.  "I'll try.  Yes."

"I cannot ask more than for a respectable effort," Tokarel responded approvingly; then he repeated, "Servant has accomplished her duty.  You benefit from it." Suddenly, he stood, and holding her gaze for a moment, he glanced back at the bathing area.  "Where are your oils stored?  I want to see them."

Though perplexed, Natasha stood and crossed the quarters, picking up the length of the dinner gown mid-way.  The sleeves and skirt were as heavy as they were long and the length pooled on the floor when she stood still.  The embroidered gown fell from a side sash that was fastened her ribs and split to the knee, just not enough to walk at her natural pace--an awkward dress at the very least.  When she came into the bathing area, she looked around.  Behind the tub was a small cabinet.  In it was a tray with a handle that Natasha pulled out.  When she turned back, she saw the general coming around the bath, his long, burgundy-clad form moving slowly but smoothly to her then reaching out for what she offered.  His fingers brushed hers as he drew the handle of the tray away; she shivered inside.

He glanced down at the labels that were still alien to her and extracted a golden bottle.  Waving it under his nose, he nodded approvingly.  "Feer garl.  She has taken direction well." He touched the edge of the cap and rubbed the trace oil on his fingers, then smelled it again.  "Yes, this is good." Moving around, he touched her arm to guide her.  "Come with me, Tasia."

She did, half expecting to go to the dressing room, but he led her to the bed, instead.  Sighing silently to herself, she pulled back her shoulders and mentally prepared herself; then she waited for him to show her where to go that time.  He did so after setting down the oil.  Reaching out, Tokarel unfastened the heavy gown and pressed it gently off of her shoulders, and then over her hips.  

Natasha only drew a breath at the move that time.  Certainly there were no secrets between them now, and she knew he was very plain in her undressing, so there were even fewer surprises there.  But she did breathe more deeply when his warm palms touched her sides then moved around her to unfasten and press away her undergarments.

"You like to be touched, Tasia," he whispered to her ear as he pressed close to her.  His fingers now gently kneaded her back; one hand then slipped over her buttocks.  His silky clothing brushed against her breasts and belly.  "You respond to it most positively."

"Yes," she said in a breath, and added in another, "though I'm unused to it."

"A gross negligence I will endeavor to correct," he returned.  Tasting her neck, warming her fair body, he at last guided her down onto the small, plain bed.  Then he wedged his hands underneath her and turned her gently onto her belly.  A pause followed, and he drew his finger around her shoulder and down the side of her back.  

Natasha shivered.  He was tracing the scar.  A sensitive line of ruined flesh, she could feel that touch radiate in her gut.  Her eyes closed when she heard his lips part to speak.

"You have been in peril for your life."

"I've defended myself."

"Not always successfully, I see."

She stiffened.  There was no forgetting how she got it, and she had kept it to remember never to be careless again.  Never again...

 _Keep it tight; stay in the moment..._

"Not always," she answered, "but enough."

"Feshirr, Tasia," he whispered.  "I do not mean to discomfort you." His warm hands now fell over her, coated softly with the oil.  "Rather the opposite.  I will make no more comments at this time.  Breathe and allow yourself to feel the pleasure of this touching.  Allow me to pleasure you."

She felt his hands slide over every muscle in her back, pressing firmly in tiny circles then roving around and stroking up.  The rich aroma of the oil filled her nostrils, then, and a soft sigh escaped her.  Much as she hated to admit it, she did crave touching, his kind of treatment, his long, warm hands and easy strength.  Even Ivador's meticulous treatment did not relax her as his heavy, steady pressure did, and that was before his fingers slid down and moved between her thighs to her knees.  But before giving them too much attention, however, only enough to let her know he was thinking in that direction, he moved up to her arms.  Stretching them up, he caressed every muscle and tendon from her hands to her shoulders until her fingertips tingled with warmth.  Once he was certain to loosen every centimeter of each limb, he returned to her back.

Her eyes closed, she continued to breathe into the massage...

_Tatyana Ilyivna, thirty, April eleven, Fedir and Olivia; worked on the Patoro, drifted to Starbase 343..._

And the rest had to go away.  It had to go away.  She had to adjust to the silence and the time alone and distract herself.  Just like in Starfleet, she could not keep reliving the past, but keep it tight, safely away, until it would be hers again.  But there, now, it was long dead, far away, like herself as she reinvented her facade, naked under a Romulan general's hands, relaxing, feeling....

Feeling.  From her childhood well into her Academy days, Natasha had shunned physical sensation, not only to avoid the potentially unpleasant--though that indeed was a large part of it.  Whether an enemy or a sparring partner, when others touched her, it was for painful purposes.  She was not afraid, but felt on guard when people advanced.  Only thrice had she invited intimacy, once awkwardly, ending with shame, once inappropriately and settled, and a third seemingly normal but cold and impersonal.  None had made her feel anything like she did with Tokarel.

Feel pleasure, feel the desire for it to continue, and to sink into that cocoon of sensation...

He looked her in the eyes when he undressed her and placed his hands upon her.  He touched her face and melted into her gaze.  And now, his fingers kneaded her muscles, desirous of her pleasure.

And she did feel pleasure.  And she did not resist.

After many minutes of long, firm stroking, he took her under the hips and maneuvered her up, her knees to bend and separate.  Though thoroughly relaxed, Natasha still told herself not to resist, even as she wondered what he was doing.  She soon lay face down crouched over her bent legs as he circled her hips with long kneads that drew in to her inner thighs.  She half expected him to enter her then, and she felt her insides quiver with dreadful expectation, but it did not happen.  His attention returned to her back, rubbing each string of muscle until she felt so loose she thought she might not be able to get up.  If that was his plan, he was certainly succeeding at it.

Countless minutes passed there, longer still in the silence with but their breathing and his motions; then finally, he turned her over, and her breath caught at the look on his face.  It was one of absolute desire, the like she had never seen, even in their first encounters, even as he continued with her massage with almost businesslike precision.  He knew exactly what he was doing...and she knew exactly what it was doing to her....

What _he_ was doing to her.

She would not resist.

 _I am his consort,_ came the echo in her mind, and still, she met the thought with disbelief, and unworldly awareness of something so ridiculous, so ironic and terrible.  However, her common sense kicked in and she knew it was real and it was her life.  It was what she had to do...and be.

 _Why must he make this easy?_ she thought yet again as her feet were loosened, one by one, then her calves in tandem, hamstrings, hips....

"So beautiful, Tasia," he whispered as he stroked her sides, running his fingers under her ribs to pull her up at the small of her back.  Following his direction, she stretched her arms overhead and allowed her body to arch when he pulled at her lower back, breathing deeply.  "Perfect..." Releasing her, letting her body fall to the mattress, he let his palms brush over her nipples until they tightened and she shivered at the change.  Then he stroked her from her triceps to her waist and up again.  On his second pass, he leaned down, captured a nipple between his lips and sucked on it.  Natasha gasped.

Could she become so accustomed to that as to expect it, that kind of sensation she had only imagined was supposed to happen?  Could she trust that it too would not be taken from her once given?  That trust would provide contentment.  That could not be.  She would never be so careless, so naive...

But she did feel it now, her responses, the shots of pleasure and the loss of breath as his tongue flickered over her stiff flesh and his palm stroked around...  She could run for kilometers without having to stop, but this...  This was different.  And despite the steady feeling she knew her body liked, she wondered when he would stop and finally decide it was time for sex.

His caresses didn't stop.  Again, he ran his hands down her sides, and he took her other nipple to suckle it more firmly as he guided her leg to bend.  Hooking her knee over his leg, wrapping her partially around him, he worked her quadriceps, stroking her firm, lean muscles in long, heavy strokes with one hand and circling her hip with the other.

When that hand circled in enough to brush her between the legs, she jumped.  Now he watched her, studied her, his chest rising and falling steadily.  In response, her instincts readied.  He was an incredibly patient man, willing to take as much time as was needed to have what he wanted just as he wanted it.  A warrior, a strategist...  It felt like over an hour had passed already, and he had only just begun to work on her arousal...or had he all along?  Again, his hands moved over her, one firmly, the other painstakingly gentle, and then repeated the process until she both shuddered and relaxed.  Then he switched sides.

_What have I done?_ she begged herself again as she exhaled another soft groan.

She never imagined it could be _that_ , for though she had begun to arch into his pressure, even she didn't realize how aroused she was until he pressed her legs down and apart then, with another few drips of the balm on her glossy limbs, leaned down and pressed his tongue to her clitoris.  She cried out and arched her back and a burst of sensation shot through her and over her twitching belly.  She knew he would advance their encounter, but not like that...

Not like _that_...

Without thinking, her lips parted in want for breath, which released a moment later with words, her words, "Bozhe miy..."

Circling carefully as he meanwhile caressed her inner thighs, he now made no sound.  Only her breathing broke the dead air, soft moans that grew and tightened quickly.  It was amazing, deadly, perfect and horribly addictive, and she wanted it.  A finger entered her, pressing in and upward, and she was caught--and she wanted to be there, on that edge with him holding her there, ready for her relinquish it all.  As long as he had been caressing her, and now with his hot tongue caressing her, his fingers pressing within and around her, her body gave way in little time.  Her insides quivered and radiated with sensation, then her body stiffened and jerked with release.  Her hand clutched the bedcover as the sounds of her pleasure filled her ears.  Her other hand touched her slick breast, her fingers slipping over her taut nipple, causing another jolt inside of her.

And she did not try to hide.  She could not think to.  She felt...everything.

Everything happened at that moment, and she wanted it: Her orgasm, his mouth, still moving, his hand, softly kneading, and his warmth.  And all she could hear was her response...such satisfaction.

In seven days, she had learned how she must live, with physical pleasure, and it drove her back into a black shame.  In seven days, he had made her enjoy it.  Five years on the Patoro and seven years in Starfleet, it took only a week to destroy the facade she had so meticulously constructed and maintained. 

But no...that facade had been coming down.  It had already suffered damage and had been threatened with collapse.  

_But this is not suffering, but only everything you feared, everything you knew would weaken you and make you want...and feel..._

...such a release she had never known, and she wanted and hated it, and she shuddered with every stroke of his hands and move of his mouth.

_Accept this, Natasha.  You chose this.  Accept it...  Live in the moment..._

"Ah...  Shcho vy--"

She could not help her words.

His tongue dipped into her and his rumbling hum responded, pleased at what he found.  But instead of taking his pleasure with her immediately, he returned to the massage, caressing her quivering belly then gently circling her breasts, squeezing her hardened nipples, and then running his hands around to the arch of her back, pulling her up slightly as he rubbed them flaccid once more.

Finally, his hands left her, and he sat up, first on a knee to pull away his sash and tunic, then he slid back to pull away his trousers and sandals.

Natasha watched him, noticing as if for the first time how leanly muscled his body was, smooth and deep olive.  To her eye, he was handsome, with intelligent brown eyes bearing long, black lashes to match his short hair, tinged with grey at the temples, a slender but long nose above a mouth that seemed always inclined to a little grin.  He had strong but slim legs that encouraged his excellent height.

Yes, she decided, his good appearance was probably a part of what made him at least physically acceptable to her, why she had weakened, why she didn't mind him pressing against her, warm and assured...

And then she knew he had done her no harm, and were the others to be believed, he had done them more good than harm.  He had given her a good deal of physical pleasure, and had given her a servant and clothes and food.  He was treating her well, in what ways he knew to...so far.

Sticking to that moment, in that moment, at least, she could not blame him for being what he was...as she should not blame herself for making the choices she had.

She blamed herself anyway, as Tokarel began to move over her again, his slick, warm hands sliding up her fair, pliant frame, the deep scent of his cologne blending with the spicy oil he had chosen for her.  The combination was almost overpowering, and her head spun a little in the wash of sensations.

When he bent to recapture her nipple, his belly rubbed her between her legs; then, reaching to his side, he retrieved the oil bottle.  Popping the cap with a thumb, he shook a portion into her palm.  Natasha got the hint and, when he moved up her frame enough, began to work it into his back.  She added her other hand and kneaded him into an embrace as she felt him enter her, easily now, slow and steady, and so warm, she soon felt a sheen of perspiration add to her slick skin.  Her knees pulled up instinctively, and he captured them, groaning with satisfaction.  

His hands then circled her behind the knees and pressed them up close to her shoulders as he repositioned himself so that her buttocks were rested on his slightly parted thighs.  Now he massaged her calves as he pressed into her and she had little choice but to hold onto his hips; her only other option was to let her hands fall away again, and apparently, he didn't want that.

But as always, he seemed to be one step ahead: He released her legs.  Bending forward, he spread his hands over her middle, and as he pressed into her that time, he matched it with a stroke over her abdomen then over her center.  She breathed and shuddered at the sensation it caused, forcing her to squeeze her legs and grind into the move.  Taking her fingers into his own, he directed her to copy the motion.  She complied, and he took her by the hips and began again.  

When her head bent back and her eyes naturally closed, he stopped and placed his hands on hers.  She blinked her gaze back to his, silently asking what had happened.

He withdrew from her and moved back enough to sit her up then turn her around.  "I am curious," he whispered as he pressed himself behind her, easing her to the head of the bed, "to see if you would like this.  It is more...Romulan."

His hand moved around her waist to position her; he then directed her hands to the top of the bedframe, which she had to reach up slightly to hold on to.  His fingers slid down her sides, bracing against her hips to steady her as he tapped her knees to part wide with his own knee.  Then, with a turn of his gentle grip, she was directed to arch her back to give him access.

Hanging onto the frame, her cheek pressed against her bicep, she felt his penis reenter her.  Another turn of his fingers and she arched more so he could grind into her.  She sighed a long breath and shivered.  When he had resumed his rhythm, his hands left her sides to brush over her breasts and thighs, stroking her slowly as far as he could reach.  Natasha cried out softly.  Wrong, right, shameful or just her job, it was wonderful.  Exhaustingly wonderful...and growing gradually as he moved without pause and caressed so gently, breathing slowly against her neck.  She had never felt anything close to such pleasure.

They never said it should feel like that.

And it grew more.  She shuddered and breathed into it...and she wondered if the sudden dizziness was a result of the wine again, or for her blood racing around her as it was...

His fingertips pulled at her nipples, then a hand slid softly down between her legs as he quickened his pace...

And again...

She gasped, confused as she began to feel again...

And again...

But now it was closer inside her, a pressure, spreading...

She had been so focused on the building feeling inside of her that she never expected it to overflow and for her body to suddenly convulse with pleasure and sensation.  She gasped a cry and clutched at the bedframe, her body rocking as he steadied her, maintaining his pace.

He said nothing in praise of her response, and perhaps she would not have heard him if he had.  His fingers caressed her clitoris steadily, eking her on, and his other arm moved around her to pull her from the rail and firmly against him as he thrust hard into her from below, surging.  He seemed to grow even more within her, and he began to groan; his grip on her tightened and his thrusts strengthened.  She cried out again, jerking as her muscles jumped and the sensation came over her yet again, until she felt a warmth spreading inside of her...his warmth.  

Tokarel moaned with relief as his hands slid around her, embracing her from behind as he fought to regain his breath, a moment of vulnerability in his ultimate success with them both.  "Thank you, Tasia...  So beautiful...magnificent," he whispered, holding her steady, wet and warm, nuzzling her back with his cheek.

Her eyes closed.  Her body felt on fire, and yet she was now exhausted...drained by the incredible exertion that the session had required.  He did not let go of her, holding her safely suspended in that moment.

Never had anything felt close to that before.  She had never imagined anything like that was _possible_ \--for the second time since she had come to that wretched place, she'd thought that, and the first time was nothing, nothing...  

But no, not wretched--just captivity, detestable captivity from which she had extricated herself before in her life but now must choose, was absolutely necessary...and not wretched...except in her mind.  Only she had kept her trapped there.

Never had she felt...when for so long she had nothing, only pain or loneliness and years of telling herself it was better that way, that feelings made her vulnerable, being near enough to be touched allowed danger, that all that gave her joy would be taken from her.  Nothing ever like what she had just experienced had entered her mind.

If she felt shame for it just then, it was doubled when she felt water trickle over her cheeks and onto her heaving chest.  But they were there...and more came as, when Tokarel gently released her, she bent over, onto her hands and knees.  There, her body folded as it throbbed with the ebbing orgasm.  Her skin grew cold away from him.  

Suddenly, she could smell the oil again, and his scent.  His hand touched her hip and she stiffened.

Pausing, Tokarel's arms moved around her again and he eased her about to face him.  Her head bent, causing a trickle of chains from her hair to fall before her eyes.  But she did not move them.  She could not look at him now.

"Have I hurt you, Tasia?" he asked.  "I thought you felt pleasure.  But I have hurt you."

"Ni...no..." she whispered.

"But you are injured." His voice was soft, almost a whisper, and heavier still with concern.  "You will tell me if I have hurt you."

"Ni, ya...  No.  I..." Her head shook again.  _When have I ever been so cowardly!?  Look at him, you fool!_ But she could not make it happen.  She suddenly could not bear the _idea_ of the sight of him, and did not care if she were tough or valiant and stubborn...

"You are upset?"

"Ya ne rozumiyu." She pulled another deep, shaky breath.  "I can't explain what's wrong."

"Nothing is wrong, apparently, save this unhappiness I have caused for you."

Natasha could feel his want for an answer now.  He obviously was feeling responsible again.  Arrogant, really, that he felt himself to be the cause and end of everything.  But she answered him, anyway, "I've had sex...but never felt..." Finally impatient with her foolishness, she brushed the delicate jewelry from her face and forced herself to straighten and pull her head up and hold a posture that was not completely pathetic.  "I never had _that_ kind of pleasure before."

Now she was triply shamed to know how difficult it was to say that.

"And it had to happen _here_ ," she finished.

Tokarel sighed, his eyes very sad, then, and he brought her close and tucked her head into the curve of his neck.  Letting his hand fall over her slick back, warm and sure, he said, "Then I am very sorry, indeed, Tasia.  You are such a beautiful, sensible woman.  That no man has pleasured you properly dishonors their every meager effort."

Her heart blackened with dismay.

"That I would have to give you your first memory of sexual completion, while excellent for my ego and your adjustment, cannot be anything but unpleasant for you to understand.  That should not have been."

Natasha felt the disappointment in his voice as he caressed her in his encompassing embrace.  It was strange to be held like that, good as it felt, much as she savored it...  But then she frowned, her confusion and discomfort doubling to imagine his feelings for _her_ on top of the rest.  Was this a fantastically orchestrated manipulation?  Why did she not feel it was?  Was his tactic working, or were her instincts on target?

She honestly could not say.

In a way, she did not want to know.

"This is just...  I'm still adjusting to the idea that I'm here, much less here with you, locked into this thing." 

"I understand, and I understand that this 'thing' is humiliating for a woman of your education and culture.  I have researched your kind extensively since forming our agreement.  Your race has no equal to the rank and status you bear among mine.  How can you know any honor in it?" Bending his head, he nuzzled his cheek against her crown.  "And yet, I must ask again, have you a preferred option?" 

"I have not asked for an option."

He backed away enough to hold her eyes in his once more.  "Then for what do you ask, Consort?"

"Maybe nothing," she said tersely.  "Because I say something doesn't mean I make a request.  I'm still adjusting to what I know I committed to, what I have had to become."

"You did not want to feel pleasure," he deduced.  "By feeling pleasure, you must accept your position, the duty to which you have committed yourself, and admit it was not as great a sacrifice as you imagined."

His hands had stilled around her, their stillness reassuring her as he gave her the truth she'd already known--letting her know that he knew.  So she nodded.  "That sounds like a sensible explanation."

"You must not feel ashamed, Tasia," Tokarel said, even more gently now.  "I know I am in a far better position to profess this, but it is the absolute truth that your pleasure is no crime--rather, it is prudent and necessary.  Moreover, you have great health and vigor; it would be unnatural for you to not respond to stimulation, in spite of its source or your current situation." He sat them up so that he could look directly into her eyes, and he smiled slightly when he got what he wanted.  "Indeed, you must respond, for if you no longer feel, you may as well be dead.  Yet without question, you are not dead, Tasia.  You are very much alive, healthy and beautiful, and--I presume to think in spite of this odious agreement--desirous to feel.  I am simply not the man you expected to supply it." 

"I _am_ alive," she whispered, locked onto his steady gaze, feeling her whole body still with recognition--of him, of his statement, of his aura of control, a thing she once had thought herself to possess absolutely.

 _Now gone...  Gone...  I made this, and now I have to live with it...be alive._ She barely felt within the nude, slick body within his warm grasp, until his hands moved again, kneading her thigh, pulling her gently beneath the knee to draw her closer, warming her more with every centimeter she neared until her skin touched his once more.

"Without any doubt," he replied, very close to her now.

"I didn't expect to be, after all that happened."

"But you are."

She shook her head into a shrug, warding off the treacherous water in her eyes.  A shudder lay deep within her, but she suppressed that, too.  She could not let herself go.  She could not lose control and let go of that other weight within her, that knowledge and past--or future, as it were.  It was all she had left, her only source of power--and what a power to yield!  --Or never, never allow to be yielded.  She should much rather die and take the others with her than let them have what all she knew.

_Alive..._

"And so," he continued, "how shall you live now, Tasia?"

"As well as I can, I suppose," she whispered, and she felt her promise resurrect within her.  Indeed, she had tried to, as long as she had breath, to survive, to keep on, even when everything was gone, including her mind, her heart...all but her soul.  She still had her soul.  She still knew her soul...  "It is what I should do."

"You would waste great opportunities otherwise," the general agreed.  His hands lay flat on her back again; then, squeezing gently, they moved--one to hold her steady, the other to her leg to pull it gently around his hip.  "To accept the pleasure life affords you is most gratifying, Consort," he said softly, "when you simply allow it to be.  To be merely truthful to yourself, to your desires, and to know they now will be served as best as can be achieved, will offer some contentment."

Her nerves lit and moved from her belly to her heart in another second.  Surely he could not be thinking they should repeat...  She was so tired, deep in her heart and in every loosened muscle, and yet...

Tokarel sat back, pulling her along with him.  Their bodies were still coated with oil, so the shift was smooth, more graceful than she knew herself to be.  "Now that we have some idea how to achieve it," he added, "perfecting the process may offer you at least one sense of living, one most satisfying.  More intellectually completing ones will follow.  Yes...this will do for now."

She gazed at him at length, knowing full well that a distraction from her fast-acting concern was not entirely unwelcome.  With a few more nudges, he was on his back and she was straddling his ready form.  His fingers, still entwined with hers, tugged; his hips rocked against her, tempting her to make the next move.

Her breath left her, and she felt her shame return alongside a vulnerability she had not acknowledged since it had been trained it out of her, long, long ago.  But now it was more her instincts that he asked her to serve, an instinct for pleasure and attention.  She must know and accept it in order to give it. 

Natasha understood.  He had indeed been teaching her, quickly but assuredly, and now had subtly expressed that she _had_ claimed her pleasure, and would willingly have it that way every time they came together should she merely take it.  So the flash of shame faded, and his heat and touching made her shudder with renewed warmth.  Arching her back, reaching briefly down to ensure his position, she took him inside of her again.

 _Now what?_ she asked herself as she felt him grow more now that they had met so.  _Instinct..._ Breathing deeply then leaning forward, moaning softly at the sensation of his fingers slipping over her conveniently placed breasts, she began to move...

...And again.

Her lips twitched up.  She felt it...

Then more...

* * *

  
  

Not dead.

The thought conquered every attempt at distraction, hours into her morning.  It beat in her heart and made her hands numb.  She rubbed her fingers together, feeling the metal and the fiber, warm in her hands after so many hours, but then she stopped.  Her fingers were empty, and the work was not there.  Instead helping it fade, her attempts to think of other things only increased her anxiety.

_"You are very much alive, healthy and beautiful...desirous to feel."_

She was everything she had sworn she would not become, subject to another, subject to the system that kept her.

She shook her head and crossed her velvet-clad arms, rising from her seat and padding across the room.  _You are a security professional!" she told herself, almost speaking the words as well she she felt her passion.  "You killed yourself to catch up on the Patoro, trained for four years at the Academy, went through officer training and landed the best ship in the fleet when ten years before you could hardly write your name!  You fought hard and survived!  You are_ not _an object, not just a "creature!"_

She felt her palms press against the wall before she realized had actually put them there, and she hung her head as she tried to catch her breath.  She did not try to understand why she needed to catch her breath, but felt the shudder deep inside her asking her to breathe deeply, to calm, the focus.

_"Pidnimaj!  Zoseredzhujsia!  Prytsilys’!  Striljaj!"_

She felt her back straighten.

 _You are none of those things,_ she commanded herself.  _Focus, you fool!  You are Tatyana Ilyivna.  You were a cargo guard, and now you are a consort indentured to a Romulan general.  You accepted his proposal, you knew what was coming.  You do it for them, to protect them.  Accept and move forward._

And she ran over her revised history several more times, forcing her recent history away...forcing a new reality in.

_"How long do you plan to hide?  --You cannot deny that you hide far more than you own."_

And she would begin by forgetting that horrible conversation.

_"Precisely how independent is any individual within a society, Tasia?"_

They were not free, were they--particularly when they believed they were.  For how free had she been in Starfleet?  Had she not used it, investing in a future she had desired, and in turn allowing it to use her?  Aside from the physical requirements, how different was that captivity from her present situation?

_”You will need to find a focus outside of your mission, Lieutenant, else there will be nothing for which you can hope.”_

_”Nothing but death.”_

She had done this before: She had moulded herself, and had done so exceedingly well.  Had some days not engulfed her so that she had not been completely aware of who she was?  Had she convinced them all so well that she had wondered how she could die in good conscience, knowing what she had made of herself?  In the end, she regretted nothing...and yet, there was always the sadness.

There was want.

Desire.

What really was she sacrificing that was any worse than all she had already given?  What was she doing there that had been any worse than what she had done in her life?  She hurt no one there.  She was nobody and invisible, and it affected none but the crew that remained.  No, she now gave far more than she had taken, saved far more than killed, and she suffered no pain but what she inflicted upon herself.  The general certainly had given her no right to complain.  She had no right to be anything but thankful for the comforts she must now suffer.

The body was nothing.  The soul was forever.

Her eyes drew down to her clean, well-tended hands.

Thin, filthy hands replaced them behind her eyes, held within two old, red and ruined ones, and then his eyes, bereft but knowing, wanting....

_"Natasha, you must survive at any cost.  You must give yourself to the present, no matter what stands before you, and get to the next moment.  Make what sacrifices you must, do all you need to rise above them, and _live_.  I know you can do this without the cost of your soul.  Keep it tight within you, and it will keep you strong, as you have been."_

If anything, she had obeyed him, despite the cost.

And the want.  Undying want.

* * *

  
  

"Jolan tru.  --Nvil lohk korrol chov."

"Choviir ag horahk tru."

That day, she had taken the seat across from the bed and ran through the motions of tea washing, over and over as she recited the words that came with each move, forcing away the inevitable, over and over...

_"Has the change in your life been acceptable?"_

_"Yes, it has."_

Why should she have lied?

Because she had lied so well to them all, and to herself...even while never forgetting the truth.

It was an art, the tea washing, like any martial art, aiming a phaser or swinging a garrote.  Each required particular motions; each required her concentration and memorization.  Each could capture her full attention if she desired it.

Desired...

"Shiaubak au vilxhulbok ni'ao viis..."

Would she ever be herself?  Would she ever be what she felt so deep within, along with the others whom she had protected so jealously?  Could that person exist anymore?

She turned her motion gently, slowly, then imagined the corners as she folded the cloth in which she had put the tea...

_Tatyana Ilyivna, thirty, eleven April, 2314; Fedir and Olivia, family dead..._

Her hands drew back.

_"Nataliya Ilyivna!  Good morning!"_

And her father's face shone behind her eyes, a beautiful, while smile beneath sparkling green eyes.

She stopped as her heart began to hammer again.  It had been doing that more often, and breathing through it was becoming less effective, especially when she knew...she knew...

_"You look very festive with your pretty boots!"_

He knew he was going to die that day.

_Nataliya Ilyivna Yaroviy, twenty-nine, six January, Iliya and Larisa..._

He knew he would die soon as he swung her up in his hands and kissed her face.  He knew...

_"Nataliya Ilyivna!  Good morning!"_

Her breath grew shallow, and there was a sting in her eyes, an odd feeling...

...and she saw them fall on the walk before their home, her mother's hair floating to rest at her side, her hand already at rest on her father's...and then shrunken and dusted as Mr. Dolina covered them at last, entombing them as they had fallen.

_"What do you see, Nataliya?  What does your heart tell you today?"_

She breathed again, and she reached out again, and her hands floated in the air as to pull the cloth to one side then the other, and the water stained with the rich red of the rivvolu leaves, and the spicy aroma wafted into the air.  She already knew she preferred rivvolu, though it was the richest and spiciest of the teas they had tried.

She liked the feeling of it as it enveloped her senses, though she knew she should not like that feeling so much.  She should never let things overcome her...

_"To accept the pleasure life affords you is most gratifying, Consort, when you simply allow it to be.  To be merely truthful to yourself, to your desires, will give you some contentment."_

His soft baritone filled her mind, and with that flash of memory, all her thoughts turned toward him: Tokarel and his quiet, tender words sorted through her mind in tandem with the memory of his hands all over her, his lips and tongue, that incredible warmth and pressure, the weigh on and inside of her, begging for her pleasure if nothing more, her desire...

_"And so, how shall you live now, Tasia?"_

She felt her heart beating hard in her chest, though she was still seated on the chair across from her bed.

_"I am alive!  That is enough!  ...I only want quiet."_

Her hands floated down to her lap.  It was covered with a beautiful red brocade, light but warm.  She had always loved the color red--pure red, like the poppies that grew behind her house.  Her great aunt had first planted them when she had the house, and over the years, they had taken over the hillside, appearing every spring...until the fall, when they all had died, never to return.

_"What's that?"_

_"Mohyla,"_

She had forgotten about the chill air.

Her fingers traced the designs of the cloth.  It was a kind of silk, she could tell, and made to look hand spun, though very fine.  No one from her most recent experience would have imagined her knowing that.  But she did.

_"And so, how shall you live now, Tasia?"_

How many lies?  Or perhaps the greatest lie to them all would be truth?  --But that would not be safe.  That could not happen.

Her breath had quickened again.  Again, she felt out of breath.  Why could she not control it?  How could she live like that?

_Nataliya Ilyivna Yaroviy, twenty-nine, six January, Iliya and Larisa..._

Her gaze rose from the brown floor to the tan wall.  

_Tatyana Ilyivna, thirty, eleven April, Fedir and Olivia..._

Would she ever see a sun again?

_Stop.  Focus._

She would die in lies...

The memory of him...

Ivador came with the tea and a few PADDs tucked into a satchel that hung from her shoulder.

Natasha rose from her chair, unable to press down her responsive grin at the interruption.  She would occupy her next isolation with whatever she could glean from those tablets.

* * *

  
  

"Ul sialg hrrelahk..."

What he had made her feel...  Alive.  She didn't think feelings like that existed.  --Well, she had _heard_ , but how could she have understood?  How could she have known every nerve in her body could light up like that?  How could she have imagined she would... _want_ that feeling?

_Alive..._

She wanted that feeling.

_"To accept the pleasure life affords you can be most gratifying..."_

It certainly was gratification, amazingly overpowering.  Could it become addicting?  Certainly she had studied captive situations like hers.  --But was it the same.  By his word and Ivador's she was no captive, but had been employed after being conscripted into their caste.  And if she must be a consort in that place, indeed, she would be a fool to resist what he gave her...though she hadn't resisted yet, only...learned--learned what she had chosen, again and again, learned that it wasn't terrible to feel...  And she felt his hands on her again, kneading, stroking, caressing, and his breath against her skin...

She exhaled.  _You will have that later.  Focus._

Another hour...

"Ul sialg hrrelahk.  Mio rratlab fik."

Dinner, sialchku.  Wine, rranlab.

The words fell off her tongue with frightening efficiency.

She would mould herself.

Her career was gone, everything she had struggled to achieve in that foreign place, one of those people, like Murenka had done...but the other way around...  Or was it?

 _What career?_ she scoffed to herself.  _Turkana was long behind her, her history there no more.  The Federation had been losing the war.  The crew didn't talk about it, but those whose job it was to know understood it.  The senior staff had several times discussed terms of surrender and each officer's part.  -- _If nothing had happened to change that, you would have worked for the Klingon Empire soon enough, if they would have let you live.__

She breathed a grim laugh.  Suddenly, being a Romulan consort was a far more inviting prospect.  

For that matter, none of the rest existed.  None of that Starfleet imagining did.  -- _Yes, you must think of it as imagining, now.  It is just a strange dream you had that stuck with you._

She saw her fingers flying over the LCARS, and she remembered the tactical sequences she had memorized so she would not have to translate them in her head.  She knew them all and could improvise in a blink.

It never happened.

That sickened feeling resumed in her gut.  Would it ever fade?

_None of that imagining existed.  You are merely a cargo guard who was lost of options and now lives as a general's consort.  There are no Klingons for you to worry about, no ships, no crew.  What little you had was left behind with the rest of that battle that brought you here and under the notice of the general in charge of the operation.  You gave yourself for a crew you did not know because you saw no point in their executions, and...you had nowhere to go._

Her hand fell onto the beautiful table where they ate meals, and where he had taken her the first time.  And it had not been terrible, merely awkward and insecure.  But he had made her feel pleasure there.  He had told her that she should.  

_You are not a prisoner.  You chose this._

The wood was so warm, slick against her hand.

There was nowhere for her to go.  Only death awaited her.

She remembered how his hands had stroked her skin, warm and so assured, even as they discovered her for the first time.

She would mould herself.

* * *

  
  

"What do you expect of me?"

His eyes turned to her, and he set down his spoon.  "Have I not made this clear?"

She drew a breath, cursing her verbal impulsiveness.  Desha had encouraged it for good reason, but it would no longer serve her, and she did not like it in herself.  She had been so quiet, once, but Standard speaking people had to be brash, they had told her, and she had learned well how to channel her anger into that forthrightness.  Still, she thought such speech was ugly, and always after she had already spoken.  

After training down her tone, then, she tried again, "I'm getting two messages: One to learn your way of life, speak your language and dress like those of my rank, and at the same time, you want me to be myself, yes?"

His eyes grew heavy with her meaning.  "Ah, I see.  You are curious as to how to maintain both aspects."

"Yes."

His brow flicked up with consideration.  "I have never taken a consort, much less had an alien woman living in my employ, and therefore, I perhaps might begin by saying that perhaps we both will learn a proper balance in time.  I can tell you now that your presentability as my consort is heavily dependent on your enculturation, thus your need to adopt Romulan manners and to appear as one who belongs in my house.  This is not only for your ease with the staff and my sister, but also for your respectability, security and resulting safety.  With me, however, I desire you always to be as honest as you feel you are able.  I desire you to be the woman I contracted, whom, I realize, I am still coming to know.

"I understand you cannot open yourself to me entirely.  It would not be in the nature I suspect of you, even outside of our agreement and different races.  However, I live with the deceits and intrigues that are a part of my people's culture in my working day.  I desire time in my leisure to relinquish my guard to some degree, to share myself with someone who has no potential objective."

"But I do have an objective."

"Yours involved no ambition nor politics.  You are wholly unaligned with Romulus.  You merely desire the freedom of the people with whom you were captured." He smiled.  "And aside from generous, you are beautiful, vibrant and genuine.  I had never known such a person as you, and so I have enjoyed our time together already.  I hope it will continue, and that, yes, you will always show me your self, even as you must live among us and be discreet."

Natasha nodded slowly.  "You've never had a companion--an intimate companion."

"Yes."

She nodded and reached out to take another piece of bread.  "Neither have I." Glancing his way, she added, "Thank you.  I'll try to remember what you said."

"You need not try, Tasia," Tokarel told her.  "You already have remembered."

That time, her gaze turned entirely to him.  He held it.

"Yes," she said softly as she broke the bread.

* * *

  
  

"Jolan tru.  --Nvil lohk korrol chov."

"Choviir ag horahk tru."

Natasha pulled her hand from her pillow and blinked at a new thing.  She could see her hair.  Frowning at first, she pulled it out a little and looked more closely, as well as she could, for it was still just touching her shoulders.  A deep flaxen blonde, it had a decided wave about it, like it had been when she was young, before she had it cut and pressed into a manageable form.

"What is this, Ivador?" she asked.  "How did you do this?"

Ivador looked momentarily discomforted.  "It is the fashion, Consort.  I had been requested to make you...presentable.  I have been treating your hair since your first bath.  You have only now noticed its success."

That form was reversed; now it was what it had been, long ago.

So many years ago, and Natasha could only imagine what she must look like.  But as there was nothing there that would allow her to inspect the change, not a single mirror or reflective surface, she decided to trust Ivador knew what she was doing.

She reached out to sit then swung her legs off the bed.  She did not resist when Ivador took her arm to help her to stand.

"Will there be more lessons today?"

"Yes, Consort."

"Good."

* * *

  
  

"Ul zahkrop rrot."

Not dead...  En route to live on Romulus...with tactical information twenty-two years in advance of his...and no way out, nowhere to go.  Very much alive and healthy.

Natasha shuddered in the cold room as the enormity of what she was facing hit her yet again--and yet, it had simplified, clarified.

_"By feeling pleasure, you must accept your place, the duty to which you have committed yourself."_

Her stare found a seam in the wall.  She captured it much like a child would catch a bug, holding it in a hand barely able to keep still, and yet managing, examining the fleeting focus with greedy curiosity.

"Ovisar au iglahk Romuschivas kal..."

She no longer paced.  She no longer counted the minutes, but only the days.

Ten days.

Someday, she would stop counting those, too.  She knew she would accept its uselessness eventually.

She _would_ be a creature of pleasure now.  Everything she had earned, everything she had achieved, needed to be put behind her.  She had to help the Enterprise C fight, and that battle was meant to happen.  Should she have lived?  And if so, for what purpose?  _To help others live,_ she reminded herself.  Her purpose had never changed in her life, only the people and places had.  She again must care for others, this time indirectly, as a pampered Romulan consort.  The rest had to go away--immediately.

It almost did not seem real.  It certainly wasn't anything she _should_ feel was right.

And yet, it was.  It had to be.

The rest of her life...and even if not, where else could she go?  There was nowhere--nowhere safe as long as her double--the _correct_ one--lived and the temporal loop was incomplete.  Ironically, Romulus was probably the safest place for her to be.  Even if the general turned on her later and became what she had expected, it would be better for all involved for her to simply deal with it and stay out of sight until the others were gone and she could make her end.

As long as the Enterprise C crew lived, she needed to remain alive, in the general's service and in good standing.  If he continued as he had begun, it would not be as terrible as it could--should--be.  She highly doubted this, however.  This was an adjustment period.  There was no way to know what could be the case in the future.  She knew this from experience.  She could only hope he was not deceiving her too terribly.

Natasha's breath slowed.

As long as the Enterprise C crew lived, so must she.

But how long would that be?  It could be years.

Years.  

She had been there ten days.

_Years._

Could be...  

_Will be._

* * *

  
  

"I'm going to be here for the rest of my life," she blurted--and realized that she had yet again been indelicate.

Standing at the general's side at the far side of the room while a few servants changed out items in the room--different chairs at the table, thicker covers on the bed, a rug, table lights--before their dinner would arrive, Natasha's nerves had been piquing as her realization began to circle again and again.  Looking at him in the underpinnings of his uniform--his black turtleneck and trousers with a deep green waist sash that day--she imagined where she would stand in years...  

But she did not like her imagination just then, so she added, "Our agreement allowed no conditions for my release, did it?"

Unaffected by her sudden noise as he monitored the workers' progress, Tokarel shrugged.  "Perhaps someday..." 

"No, not perhaps," Natasha countered.  "I need to prepare." She sighed, putting her words together more carefully...  "If I tell you something about me, can we not discuss it?" 

His brows rose as he at last peered down at her.  "I believe I can manage the effort, Consort."

Natasha reigned in her anger at his sarcasm.  He did not often use it, but it was amazingly grating when he chose to--or at least her nerves were high enough that it affected her sharply.  "When you said I had might as well be dead," she said tightly, "you were right.  I have nothing left; I can claim nothing in the Federation--no home, no career that I would want to commit myself to.  I tried, but nothing worked out the way I had wanted.  It's why I was where I was, and why you contracted me without resistance." She closed her eyes.  "Some of the crew would have tried to help me if we hadn't ended up here, but...nothing is left for me there.  I am human, yes, but...." She sighed, shaking her head.  What else was there to say of it without saying the rest?  How else could she express...

"Tasia," said Tokarel, touching her cheek, "I would care to see your eyes when you speak to me." Her gaze returned to his and he nodded.  "Please continue."

Oddly, the interruption saved her, and she recollected her thoughts.  When she spoke again, her words came with renewed calm.  "I need to prepare myself, General, for what lies ahead.  I like to face things directly, good or bad.  It will give me peace of mind to know--"

"Ajor," he interjected softly.  

"--what will be my future." She blinked.  "What?"

"You will call me Ajor privately.  It is my intimate name." With her tacit acknowledgement, he then continued, "I have told you this before, and yet it bears repeating: I admire your courage and forthrightness, more than you may now be able to appreciate.  I find you a most excellent woman.  For this reason, I will be most truthful and assure you that while I will honor my word and attempt to have the Federation block relocated when the first honorable solution arises, I do not see any termination to _our_ agreement save a most unpleasant one." His lips turned up.  "However, I would hope our arrangement would never reach such a conclusion, that it might yet turn out well."

She returned a single nod, her shoulders relaxing.  While not a happy prospect, it was at least an honest one.  She could live with that.  "Thank you...Ajor."

"It is mere payment for your duty well delivered, Tasia.  Now, are you hungry at last?" 

Against her expectation, she coughed a little laugh--and his eyes lit to see it.  "Yes," she admitted then stood aside without his cue to give the servants room to set in the new toilette in the bath.  This seemed to please him, too, for when Ivador and the other servants vacated the area, he snatched her fingers into his own and led her into the dressing area.  

Turning her at the corner wall, just out of sight of the main room, he pressed to her and bent to taste her neck.  Sighing softly, she reflexively clutched his arm.

"Has our meal been set, Consort?" he whispered when he moved to her shoulder, pulling aside the low, draping collar.

Natasha's knees went weak at the rush of blood.  His fingers had already found their way into her gown, circling and gently pinching, and his mouth seemed ready to follow suit.  He had learned precisely what would draw a response from her--and now seemed to be testing her willingness in semi-exposed situations.  It was surprisingly as erotic as it was unnerving, and she hated to have learned that as much as she was curious to see how far he would go.

"Do the servers arrive?" he asked again.

Craning her head, she peeked around the corner.  "No," she said and sucked back a gasp.  He had decided what to address first on her, as though he'd not had her once, but had been waiting all that time; meanwhile, all her day's frustrations had piqued for some form of release.  It had might as well be a physical one.

He pulled briefly from her.  "I hear noises."

Only belatedly did she realize he was right.  There were no steps, but the slightest trinks and tocks of dishes and spoons echoed back now.  She could hardly balance, but she looked again to see the servers setting down the tray.  But then she snapped back to the wall when his hand reclaimed hers and pressed it to his penis, tight behind his silky trousers.  She breathed shakily to know where that would go soon, and what she knew she should feel now.  "They began," she whispered.

"I await you throughout the day, Tasia," he told her.  "If made to wait for our meal...I would have you on the table unfed." He glanced at her, his lips cleverly upturned.  "And you must take nourishment soon yes?  I would not have you starve whilst I satisfy my hunger."

"I don't think any but the immediate arrangement is open for debate right now," she said, not matching his humor but accepting it, for he was doing what he could to please her, though she did point out, "though we might want more privacy."

"There is nobody here but us," he returned.

She stared at him when he backed again and faced her.  Briefly, he stroked her cheek with his forefinger, then he moved his arms around her.  A moment later, her feet left the floor.  Uncertain at first, she braced her legs around his hips and clung to him.  A moment later, her back pressed against the wall, and she gasped when he thrust into her well secured body.

"There is nothing here but us, Tasia," he whispered to her ear.  "We are only us, and what we claim.  Only us, and what we experience here...now."

_How I choose to live...in this moment..._

She let her head fall forward into the nook of his shoulder.  Rocking her hips, she invited him to press into her again, because she did feel it, and she did want his arms around her, and there was no one but them just there just then...  

Her heart sank even as it beat harder, and her fingers tightened to hold onto him, and her legs secured her against him as she felt him obey her.

She had chosen how to live...

* * *

  
  

Hours later, she turned onto her side and her arm flung out...exposed...

It was not safe.

She had known, but there was no choice.  She had to protect her.

It was not safe!

She had known and yet she could not leave...

And the dread washed over her limb and sucked the warmth from her body, running hard up into her heart as she felt them, grabbing, flinging, and the pain in her side, her arm, her face...

_"Cut it off!"_

_"Ne robit’ tsioho! Ni! Ni!"_

Her heart slammed against her chest as the fists and boots landed against her, and she fought, screamed, resisted.

_"Fucking bitch!  Get her--grab those legs!"_

_"Ni!  Ni!  Shchob vy podokhly, vy monstry!"_

She would not give in!  She would never give in!  But the pain, the breaking.  She heard her body breaking.  They were breaking her!

_"Get ready!"_

_"Proshu, ne robit’ tsioho!"_

Her heart and her screams were all that were left.  They would take those, too!  

_"You're dead, Settler bitch!"_

They must not! They must not!

_"Oj Hospody, ni! Ni! Ni! Ni! Riatuj mene, Mamochko! Spasy mene, Mamo!"_

Natasha awoke with a jolt in a hot sweat that covered her from her toes to her head and as far as her cold, stiffened fingers, still dug into the mattress.  Her blanket had been kicked away; the pillow was on the floor.  Her limbs trembled and her breath was little more than small gasping cries as the pain ricocheted through her every limb and across her back where the knife had cut...

The pain...  She'd had pain before, but this particular shearing pain had frightened her, the breaks and the swelling.  People died from it.  She had watched them die, painfully, resisting but soon succumbing, gagging on blackened blood.  She had been terrified to think others would watch her die in the same way, and then become just another heap in the dead pile, her mother's precious boxes left behind for no one.  Irisha would never want them.  Yes, this had terrified her as she had lain there like those dead.

But worst in it all was knowing that they had caught her, and she was one of the lucky ones.  

_Lucky.  Unlike Polina or Anna, Murenka or Gretta._

So many others, before and after her, and maybe then, at that moment...

_Lucky._

She remembered when, before, she could see a doctor when she was sick.  There were no doctors now, and she could do nothing but hope to recover.  She would have to risk a run to the river, and risk its questionable purity.  People had been poisoned there before.

And all she could feel was the sludge and blood, and all she could see was her sister's eyes, until her own blinked and closed, swollen beyond tears.  Then all she could do was pray as she heard the voices coming that she would wake again and not bother to wonder why she wanted to wake, why she wanted to live despite any promise or determination, why she wanted to continue like that.  She simply prayed.

Cold and trembling, her heart beating against her ribs as terribly as it had that terrible day, she prayed now, too, despite it all.

It was useless to cry for it would assuage nothing.  It was useless to feel shame for she knew she had done nothing wrong, nothing but let herself get into a place she should not have been.  No, for that, for stupidity, there was shame.  If she lived, she had promised herself then, she would not repeat her mistake.  

There had been no doubt that her body meant nothing: Mr. Dolina had taught her well not to care about anything but her ability to think and to move.  Her body was but a means of doing those things, and what happened to it didn't matter as much as the ability to get past it.  Her hair could go, her skin could be filthy and scraped, her nails could be broken to the quicks, and it all meant nothing as long as she had her legs and her wits.  So, all she could do was pick herself up, heal and move on, corrupted but still living, damaged but not defeated.

She knew that should not have happened, though.  She knew she had been stained.  She knew that if she lived, she would carry that with her.  She would die someday knowing she had been caught and stained by monsters.

From that day forward, she spoke Standard whenever she was any farther from home than L3.  Her beloved mother tongue gave too much away, made her unsafe--just as they had told her years before.  

Her little sister had always spoken Standard; the Dolinas had only spoken it when Irisha was just getting language, and they had told Natasha not to change her back for any sense of mistaken pride.  Natasha had obeyed, but she held on to her native culture for herself because it was what she was-- _her_ people, whom the cadres had purposefully wiped out.  Even when she left Turkana and made herself perfectly invisible to those who could endanger her, she had never forgotten who she was, what she was.

Her soul, kept tight within her.  Few knew; none knew it all. 

_"Hey, anyone ever call you Tasha?"_

He had never given her a chance to tell him no, though he never did listen.  They rarely did, and she rarely bothered to correct them after a time.  A mistake, but one she lived with, for _she_ had not once forgotten who she was.  She had adapted, lived in the moment, kept it tight, kept her eyes open and pointed straight ahead.  

She had never again let down her guard.  She had made mistakes, but she never closed her eyes.

But she did wonder why she bothered trying to stay ahead always, when the law of numbers alone told her that sometimes she must fall.  

Sixteen years after her excruciating lesson, lying on her side, her soft and manicured hand balled up against her cheek and her pulse still fluttering, Natasha did not know when she finally fell to sleep again.  It was not by her effort.

* * *

  
  

"Another?" Tokarel commented with some surprise.

"I like the taste," Natasha replied.

"There is more to it," he observed, pouring her glass despite his observation.

She took the glass with a nod to thank him.  "I'm also in a bad mood."

His brow flicked up.  "Why?"

She shrugged.  "Memories.  Not all are good." She coughed a laugh.  "Very few are, in fact." She pulled a sip and set it down to take a few more bites of the savory bread casserole.  She did not mean to be drunk, after all, and the food should help to control the effects, but she found that three glasses at lunch had been perfect to settle her down throughout the long afternoon, keep her nerves at ease and her wild thinking slowed.  Four glasses that night might make her sleep more deeply.

She wanted to sleep--sleep hard.  For a few nights, she had not.

It had been twelve days....just over.  Twelve Romulan days.  Ivador had said that the day was somewhat longer in Federation time.  The year was longer, too.!  

Twelve days ago...

 _Stop it,_ she ordered herself.

But it would not stop.  She would always know what was behind her, and that it would weigh on her far more readily than the looming end before her.  No amount of discipline was going to erase her past.  Long had she covered her obsessiveness with distraction.  But now there was so little.  Little wonder the deathly still had been driving her mad with thoughts, constant swirls of thought, memory, anxiety, want.

_Stop._

Natasha shivered and wrapped her fingers around the glass.  But she did not pick it up that time.  "I've always had an aversion to alcohol," she said instead.  "I know what mind-altering substances can do and swore I'd never be an addict."

"Wine harms nothing in moderate usage," Tokarel stated.  "When you depend upon its effects, then yes, you are weakened."

Her gaze focused on the stream of gold in the liquid, a reflection of the light above.  "Maybe I should be."

"This would be most unfortunate.  Are you so unhappy with your choice that you would seek to weaken yourself?"

"It has nothing to do with what is happening here."

"With this past you recall."

"Yes."

"You desire to forget it?"

"There is nothing to make me forget.  It's done and nothing will change it.  I only want it to stop waking me up at night."

Tokarel nodded with understanding.  "I see.  Servant will look in the medical database and see that a medicinal tea is provided you.  It will aid you far more readily than shurrat." He tapped a communicator on his sleeve and Ivador immediately came into the room.

Natasha watched him quietly administer his orders, a little surprised at the servant's quick appearance.  She must have been right outside of the door.  She wondered if that was her assigned post, or if she only sometimes stood there.

With Ivador gone a moment later, Tokarel returned to his meal, starting with pouring his glass full, too.  "And yet, Tasia, do enjoy the shurrat now, as its effects still may serve, and I will see that you sleep soundly tonight."

Natasha turned her head back to her meal, still frowning.  For all the relief from her incubus she had in Ivador's appearances, she should have known to ask about a proper sedative.  Perhaps old habits of not receiving care had prevented her from imagining she could be helped, but had she not grown away from that thinking?  It was one of the first lessons in her survival course--a course she had privately scoffed at and yet had learned when and how to ask for assistance.  Still, even if she had learned Starfleet protocols so well she could breathe them, she knew she would not like to explain herself.  

Letting her fingers slide down the warm middle of the glass, she pulled it up once again and drank....

....And maybe it was that wine that made the sex more than bearable, she thought an hour later as he moved inside of her, brushing softly against her outer flesh as he watched her respond.  Her head was swimming and her legs were bent up and out at her sides; her feet were braced against his buttocks, riding his motions.  Was there something in it that affected her in more ways than the obvious?  Likely.  _He_ certainly didn't tire out easily after a single session, and he drank from the same carafe.

She placed her hands on his upper arms while he ran his hands over her skin; his fingers pinched and pulled her nipples gently, and then burrowed his hands beneath the curve of her back to lift her.  Speeding his pace, he leaned forward.  Her feet fell and her body relaxed; soon after she began to arch, lost in the feeling, the friction, the remaining image of his body sliding against hers, his motion and her muscles contracting around him and her hand fell onto her belly...

"Make yourself know your pleasure, Tasia," he whispered roughly.

She complied, allowing her hand to slide to her clitoris and her fingers to drift over her still swollen flesh, and she remembered watching him as he flickered his tongue over the same place...

Natasha gasped as it fell over and her body gave way to her orgasm.  Since first achieving one in her, he had taken every pain to repeat it.  Though she felt uneasy still with her body's responses, she no longer avoided about the pleasure.  Even the utter loss of control over her body for that minute was worth the insecurity and remaining taint of disgrace: It was a kind of rebellion in its way, a total lack of care for anything but that overwhelming release.  

As she came down, she felt his fingers, warm and directed, sliding over her damp skin, teasing, pinching lightly.  He pulled out of her and suckled her nipple briefly while his fingers joined hers in turning around her swollen flesh below.  Natasha sighed and pressed into the movement until they eventually settled on entwined fingers.  Releasing another breath, she looked at him curiously.  He wore his same pleasant smile and focus on her.  He watched her always, so intently that she could see him with perfect clarity when she closed her eyes.  She saw his face and felt his movements--which was disturbing sometimes still, but not shocking.  He and Ivador were the only people she saw, save the servers.

How easily he had done that, she knew woozily, and then grinning slightly when she saw him reach out and grab the carafe he had taken with them to her bed.  Past him, next to the table, her gown lay in a soft lump on the floor.  He had started them off there....  

Yes, he had easily made himself and Ivador her primary concerns, given her focus in language and tea washing and kept her isolated at all other times so she could digest it all.  Yes, very effective.

Not that she cared anymore.  If it would make her forget everything, it would be easier...and safer.

And with that, the sadness returned.  Not that she would change anything if she could for the others' sakes, but perhaps...

 _Stop,_ she ordered herself.  _Stick to the moment.  Pity will kill you and take the others with you._

She still wished to forget.

"Tasia," came he general's soft, searching voice.

She looked up at him.  "Ajor."

"You are preoccupied."

"I am slightly intoxicated."

"I am as well," he smiled and, shrugging, poured himself another glass.  "I enjoy a respite tonight.  I choose to spend it with you." Reaching back to snatch up her glass, he poured a small portion for her, too.  "What weighs your mind?"

She coughed a small laugh.  "What _doesn't_?" she remarked and nodded her thanks for the refill.  "I have little to do during the day, so, yes, I think too much, sometimes.  But you have to know how much I'm still thinking about what's happened to me, too."

"Of course," he replied and sipped his wine.  Reclining on the pillow, he continued, "Certainly, you remain aware of the nature and consequence of our contract."

"Yes."

"Yet you cannot find peace in it?" he queried, truly curious.

"Not that," Natasha answered, leaning on her hand.  Glancing down, she realized as though she'd not known before that they were lying in bed with glasses of wine, completely naked, just having had sex, and they were making no move to do anything else after this apparent break.  But indeed, she had far heavier thoughts.  "I made our agreement fully aware of what I was doing, Ajor," she said at last.  "Still, that can't erase my past.  I have worked all of my life; I worked for my education against all expectation, I fought, for everything.  After all I did to get off my homeworld, after all the work I did to try to become something, be someone...someone of worth...it went nowhere, and left me with nothing...and now I'm a whore." She sighed, shaking her head at that finality, finally voiced.

Tokarel frowned.  "You certainly are not.  I employed a _consort_.  A whore is hired through a third party and is far less amenable to good company." He took her hand and pressed it to his cheek, staring deeply into her eyes.  "Tasia, you are no whore.  You are accomplished, intelligent, formidable-- _magnificent._ How I knew these things when I first saw you, I cannot tell, but discovering the truth of it, discovering _you_...  I require no wine, Tasia, to be intoxicated in your presence, and to desire many doses of reassurance."

Natasha felt her heart jump at the passion of his statement.

It was his turn to sigh, though his eyes still held her entirely, steady, unbarred.  "Something you said in the beginning remains with me, something I could not admit to then: I _would_ set you free and release your people were it possible to do so without multiple consequences I will not vainly suffer.  Their valor and persistence complimented me greatly.  For this, they have earned my respect and made my decision to spare them an easy one.  Yet my reasons for not releasing you are more than that I would certainly be lost of you; you would desert me without looking back could I afford such foolishness."

"You said your honor demands you follow through with our agreement.  Is this a part of the consequences?"

"Yes.  My honor and my word would be jeopardized; I would be seen as weak and imprudent, and under no circumstances will I allow my reputation to reflect that.  I have worked throughout my life to recover my family's proper place in Romulan society.  I will not compromise it in any way."

Natasha's brow furrowed.  "What happened to your family, Ajor?" she whispered.

Tokarel considered the answer for several seconds before confessing it.  "My father deserted a field of battle," he stated, visibly willing his dignity to survive the confession.  "It was a moment's weakness in an exhausted man, yet once his decision had been made, he could not correct it."

"Even the bravest warriors can be subject to fatigue," Natasha offered, and not for affect.  She knew this all too well.

Tokarel bowed his head briefly in thanks.  "He was soon captured and sentenced," he went on.  "Rather than kill him or give him up to the Klingon forces with whom they had warred, they made him return to Romulus to live out his shame.

"My entire family was scandalized; my grandparents left Romulus and exiled themselves rather than live with the dishonor their only child had brought on.  They never returned.  My mother, an excellent woman, took the abuse of servants as well as senators in her own house-- _my_ house--for accepting my father's return.  For the remainder of their lives, they prostrated themselves to pave a way for me, my brother and sister.  At last, when our futures were secured, they ended their lives by their own hand, and thus ended our disgrace.

"We have used their sacrifice well.  My brother and I serve the Empire to our every ability.  My sister keeps only the best society and my house and compound in Rul'siat to the utmost respectability.  My marriage to Meilor, while one of convenience, has brought together two families in great need: Theirs for financial stability after particular ruin, ours for revived connections."

"Romulans developed a capitalist society?" Natasha asked, then quickly corrected, "Your society is capitalistic?"

"Wealth is a secondary concern to the good of the Empire, but there is currency, and that currency does help one of high rank maintain some practical prominence.  Meilor's family had lost their security after a poor series of alliances.  My wealth reclaimed their homes and ships and ensured their place in the capital.  Their good connections and upstanding history revived my family's place among that society."

"Though you don't enjoy mixing in it," she pointed out, remembering their first conversation.

"I am hardly the only member of my family, certainly not the only person I must consider.  To that point, my brother, the youngest of us, has made a fruitful union with Meilor's cousin, which could not have happened without my alliance.  Their son's propriety, embrace of the Rul'siat tradition and people and position of consul in Kiirv has sealed the legacy.  I have made Kiropol the heir to my estate in Rul'siat; he, his wife and their children will move from Kiirv and lead our family when I am gone.

"So you now may understand a little of how my decision to employ you was not without extraordinary personal risk." His lips turned up as his hand stroked long over her side, and he enjoyed every moment of her reaction; she unconsciously pressed into the feeling.  "All my life, I have done as I should--the proper thing, the correct action.  I have dedicated my life to the resurrection of my family and the protection of my native culture.  For this, I serve without fail, and will unto my death."

Natasha stared at him, feeling his words echo within her with some jealousy.  How fortunate he was that he could actually succeed!

"Yet, I could not resist you, Tasia.  Your presence struck me when first we met.  I could not let the fire in your eyes perish."

She blinked rather than respond, unable to concoct anything else to say to that.  It _was_ strange, that he would risk so much, were he really such an example of morality as he believed.

"It was this fire, I suspect, that helped you move past your unfortunate origins."

"A promise to survive, and to live," she mused, letting her eyes close momentarily as Mr. Dolina's old weary face rose again from her heart.  "I promised my grandfather I would survive at any cost, and so I did.  When my people's enemies tried to destroy me, I fought that much harder and did everything short of selling my soul to them." She coughed an unhappy laugh.  "I'd sell anything _but_ my soul in the end."

The general's face darkened as she had spoken.  "What _did_ you sell?"

"I was a caught in a bad place a few times," she answered, wishing she felt as brave as she made herself sound, and she quickly clarified, "But not sex.  Men there would give you pass if you gave them something quick." Her eyes turned down.  She had never admitted that, and her gut turned to remember everything about those experiences, which likewise, she had tried to quash.  "It was only a few times...but it was necessary when it did happen."

"I take it from the dread in your face that this choice was a most difficult one," Tokarel observed.

"Of course it was," she said, her hushed tone short with a hatred easily recalled.  "They were filthy, and I felt their filth infecting me despite knowing what I needed to do."

"You should never again be made to endure such unpleasantness, Tasia," Tokarel told her.

"There, we won't argue."

"I am pleased to know it.  We rather should focus on your pleasure."

She assented, breathing to relax herself away from the invasive memory.

"What pleasures you most, Tasia, of what I give to you?"

"Your touch," she answered automatically, and was surprised at her willingness to admit it all of the sudden, particularly after having admitted what she had.  She wondered how much she should say, too.  But then, she knew he would become curious if she did not explain it, and he did not need to know every detail, so she added, "You already guessed it."

He smiled.  "It was a simple observation, though I am curious to know how such a simple desire arose.  Indeed, Tasia, you seem to me to be a woman of extreme simplicity--in the best meaning."

"I had been largely alone since I was very young," Natasha reflected, hardly knowing herself until she said it, "and after that, I...I rarely invited company.  I had forgotten what it was like to be given physical attention--to the extent that you do."

Several moments passed with the realization fresh in her heart.  

_"What you keep inside of you might become too powerful to control.  It's already shown its effect.  What will happen next time you're unable to contain your responses?"_

How long she had been alone, even in the company of others.  The doctor knew it, and knew how it was tearing her.  She knew, if she continued like she had...

"We lived with very little and by our own hands, and so my expectations have never been much."

"You have mentioned that your family died some time ago.  Do you remember your parents?"

"Yes," she answered, now disappointed to be back on the defensive when the wine really was settling in.  She had ironically hoped to talk about those things she had far less experience with.  Then again, she was surprised he had waited so long to grill her.

"When did you lose them?"

"They were killed when I was a little girl."

He bowed his head compassionately.  "Did they die in battle?"

"No.  To use your wording, my family was poorly affiliated."

"How was this?"

"A collection of groups on my homeworld were in conflict over who should lead," Natasha told him.  "My people were newcomers, and so their voices were seen as intrusions.  There were skirmishes for years before they ousted the groups who disagreed with them and destroyed the rest, claiming that my people and some others were trying to assume power over the dominant groups, which was completely untrue."

"Such has been the case amongst many races.  Romulus is no stranger to such treachery.  The simple-minded prefer to force their hand upon the innocent, to make their case an easy one."

"They'll rot there," she added bitterly, adding privately, _Twice over._

"Then they will be rewarded appropriately." His eyes remained steady on her.  "Were your parents very forthright and daring like yourself, Tasia?"

Natasha shook her head, smiling a little at the irony.  "The very opposite.  They were gentle and giving." She breathed, remembering them with the usual clarity, but oddly without sadness.  For the first time in memory, the vision of them in her head was a comfort.  Without question, she was drunk.  "Tato was a writer and loved music.  Mama raised us, she made things and she read constantly to us and to our neighbors."

"Did she teach?"

"No.  She simply read a great deal, and loved to share what she enjoyed so much." Her eyes turned away wistfully.  "When I remember her, I think about her arms around me and the stories she told...ancient stories from big books, always in our people's tongue, so we would learn our culture and our language first." 

"She was an excellent mother to give you that," Tokarel commented.  "You have said you were multilingual.  Which do you speak now?"

"Standard," she answered, "the general language of Earth."

"Why is this?"

"It makes translations more precise.”

"Perhaps this is so, but you say this without pride."

Natasha didn't feel as though she had, but she knew he was correct, and it was too late to deny it.  

"What springs this discouragement?" he continued.

"In the beginning, I felt like I was betraying my origins to speak the language of those who had made themselves enemies to my people."

"For what purpose did you, then?"

"The soldiers liked to single out my people," Natasha explained.  "I was less noticeable when I spoke Standard.  I hated it and resisted for many years, but eventually, I knew it was safer.  Moreover, not letting translators do the work for me made me able to control what I was saying.  It made things much easier when I left my homeworld, too.  People stopped asking me about where I was from."

"Certainly, you did what you felt was most wise," Tokarel said.  "However, should you like to speak natively when not the Romulan you now learn, Tasia, I doubt our translators would argue or make any worse a judgment than it would this Standard you use, and I promise not to annoy you with needless questions.  But I would like to hear your true voice, now that I know you have one.  I too must speak the general language of Romulus, of the Capitol, in my work, and do so perfectly.  But not here; not with you.  I use my native voice with you."

"I wonder if I could without feeling even worse," she mused, then glanced up at him.  "When I speak Unified...it's..." _Ya vidchuvayu riznitsyu..._ "I feel the difference.  It is my real voice, as you say...but also my heart, and I am unaccustomed to speaking it to outsiders."

"I understand your sentiment well," he told her, his lips again turning up to observe her.  "You are speaking natively now, Tasia?"

"Yes."

"It is better.  I do hear you, now--that truth of self we spoke of.  Of course I would never direct you to do anything that discomforts you, Tasia; however, you have every right to claim your people, even in your present place.  Even taking Romulus as your home, you have every right to your birth.  And I would desire it if only that I hear your pride when you speak of it, your loyalty to the memory of your people and your fondness for your parents."

"Yes...they were everything to me," Natasha responded, wanting for defensiveness, but too woozy to bother.  "I was so happy before they were killed, and they taught me everything about how to treat people, how to _be_ a person, with a soul, with a giving heart." Leaning her head back, her eyes turned askance and her words, _her_ words, from her heart, began to tumble out.  "I remember them making things to bring to the village, baskets with bread, salt and wine to bless their houses, shawls and socks and little books--real paper books--stuck inside.  Mama loved making the baskets.  She would take us all to visit around our province and give pastries and poems to our neighbors, especially the ones who were old or alone.  It was one of my first memories, and the walks through the fields from the villages to our home..." 

She stopped.  The comfort was gone.  Again she remembered how such a beautiful life had been snatched away from them by forces beyond their control.  Again she remembered how much of what her mother wanted of her children would never come to pass.  She had deserved at least that much.  She had deserved at least one honorable, decent child.  And Natasha had tried.  She had tried with all her soul....

"Why did such innocent, rural people live in a defenseless place?"

"It was different in the beginning; it had been peaceful and away from the business of the rest of the Federation.  My parents wanted a quiet life with their children and family nearby, and my father wanted another place to write.  It was the perfect arrangement at that time."

"But that did not last."

Her face hardened, half for the memory, half for letting herself fall into having to speak on that time again.  She realized that she could not tell him any more about her parents' real reasons or the actual fall of Turkana were she to uphold the identity she had assumed in the event that he ever did get around to asking for her "real" name.  A moment of anxiety flew through her, but then she calmed.  The colony records had been manipulated then later destroyed.  Tokarel could only research the Federation record of existence.  Moreover, he still had not asked for her name or the name of her birthworld.  It was entirely possible that it did not matter to him.  He called her Tasia thanks to Richard's slip, and that was the only name he had wanted to know...so far.

Tokarel tried again, bending to try to regain her full attention.  "What happened, Tasia?"

"My parents tried to maintain our family and home by being quiet and respectful, but they were murdered, anyway, without reason or provocation." 

"What had your central government to say about this?"

"The Federation knew nothing about it.  It was a colony affair, and there was no one on Earth to ask after them.  Many others suffered the same fate." She paused, rethinking quickly despite her shurrat-fogged mind.  "Two years ago, most of my people were murdered by the same factions, which had gained strength over the last two decades and finally dissolved the congress.” She paused, hoping he would not ask for more details before she could formulate the best way to rearrange her place among them.  Even as she was, she knew she was oversimplifying her explanation.  He remained patient, so she finished, "We were forced to relocate into squalid conditions, with only what we could carry while our people and homes still burned, and then they came to promise us that we would never again know freedom.  I was one of the few who escaped."

She shook her head sharply and with purpose, and she cursed her weakness in falling into Unified, into that heart she had hidden so well for so long, with only one slip in all her years away.  No, she must remain controlled.  She could not afford to relax.  Gripping her mind and turning it, she said in Standard, "I'm sorry, but I'd like to change the topic.  I don't talk about it--I don't like to talk about it.  You're the only person I've said this much to, and this wine is making me stupid."

"Why do you say this?" he asked, his face crossing with concern.  "Your voice has reverted, as well, when you had let me hear you.  Do you fear the memory?"

"It's not fear," she told him.  "I just don't have the luxury for sentimentality.  It distracts me when I can't do anything about what happened, and everything there is disowned or dead.  I prefer to live in the present."

"Your desire for strength and resolve is most admirable," Tokarel responded, touching her chin so to reclaim her gaze.  "However, you have the leisure to garner strength from their memory now, to learn to claim honor from their memory.  They are your _family_ , your history--they are what you are, your present, as you put it.  Yes, there was one dishonorable among you; if your recollection is true, the others were not so.  What you know of life had been given to you by them: They formed you, and judging by your character, Tasia, they must have been excellent people, indeed.  You must brandish your pride in them openly and embrace their honor.

"Many Romulans, and most among my region of Rul'siat, uphold the tradition of the Honored Hall.  It is a shrine to our fallen comrades and relations; we visit it to remember, and we light a fire of life at its foot each midsummer, after our Feast of Light.  You do not have such a place literally, but your memories, properly served, may do the same service, and will give meaning to their sacrifice.  You must, Tasia, keep that sort of wall within yourself, to keep them protected and honored within you, not a wall that would shield you from them." 

"I have, in a way.  Only...I never talked about it.  Maybe I have been a coward all this time, to hide them." 

"Merely confused about what would serve them and you best."

She jerked a small nod.  She could see him registering the discomfort she had been too stupid to hide, and her eyes, close to glistening, before she straightened and diverted it all to her wineglass, restoring her reserve.  She could see him mentally filing her every reaction.  He made it difficult to forget that he was a superior warrior, a careful warrior, always watching and learning--and understanding.  

His eyes still on her, he reached out to the bottle and poured another portion for her.  "Would they have disapproved of what you needed to do to survive after their deaths?"

"I think they would have understood," she answered, "but they...it would hurt them, what we had to do...what I had to do to get off that world.  I was a petted little girl with bows in my hair and white frocks.  They would have been saddened to see what I had done to survive the way I did, the methods I used to get past my enemies..." She sighed and drank again.  "And what I have to do now...  My mother would have been very unhappy...very unhappy."

"Hmm..." Tokarel peered down to her.  "I think a mother would be, indeed, unhappy that such an arrangement _had_ to be made; however, she would also see your honor and courage, and perhaps she would know that her daughter's contractor would honor her in return and treat her with respect." Touching her chin, he offered a small smile.  "And I shall, always, treat you honorably, Tasia, both by fulfilling my part of our agreement and accepting you even as I please your body." His finger drifted down, teasing a nipple erect so that his lips might follow.

Natasha closed her eyes at the contact as the memories began to fall away again, the sweet ones to their safe place within her, the bad on the surface above.  And then the present returned to her, and the rush of sensation in reaction to his suckling.  Her eyes blinked heavily.  "Yes, this is much more pleasant," Natasha whispered, a last acknowledgment.  She let her hand fall on his hair, which was short and thick, surprisingly soft to the touch.  She had come to like touching it.  Her head dipped back and fell on her pillow.  Bringing her glass to her lips with her other hand, she pulled another drink.  "And this is much better tasting," she thought aloud and finished the last drops.

"What do you mean?" Tokarel asked, backing up to look at her.

"Those men...  They liked for women to use their mouths to...pleasure them.  --You know?"

"Ah, _that._ " Settling to a hip, Tokarel wisely nodded and informed her askance, "No Romulan woman of a respected family would perform such an act." His lips pursed.  "However, I have heard that whores will do it."

Natasha's attention shot back to him with a glare.  But seeing his eyes, then his lips fight to remain straight, she coughed a laugh.  When he relaxed into a grin, she laughed again and harder.  Rolling onto her back on the soft cushion, she laughed harder still, her own fingers falling over his hair as she looked at him again.  His responsive chuckle let her know he'd indeed been joking, and his eyes offered no doubt about his regard for her.  It may well have been insanity, and there had been moments of discomfort, but she was enjoying that night.  She was enjoying him.

Her fingers fell further still, caressing the outline of his ear, then over his neck and muscled shoulder.  Over fifty in a human physical sense, he was a handsome man by the same standards, and the smell of him, that etadfa oil, made her every nerve light up.  As his hand circled her belly, his warmth radiated against her, Natasha let her own hand drift over him.  

"Ah, and now I perhaps may ask if you mind one desire or the other," Tokarel said.

Natasha shrugged, still pleasantly inclined.  "This is nice."

"No, you are open to all that is given, when it is given with kindness.  It is as it should be, for you have withstood enough against your desire without power to change it." 

She blinked her surprise at yet another excellent observation, much as it was the truth and he had had every opportunity to deduce it.

"Finer experience suits you," he continued and slid fingers down her long, fair thigh.  "I did not expect, myself, to find such satisfaction in your race's various means of pleasure.  When I researched your kind, I admit I had my doubts."

"So you did look into human sexual practices," Natasha remarked with a grin.  "You're very thorough."

"How could I give myself the pleasure of seeing your desires fulfilled, particularly when you must begin with so very little, if any?  I am only gratified to have discovered its potency, for myself as well as for you.  It is not a desire to control, Tasia, but to feel you respond, to feel your response to what I do to you, and feel your desire more...  It is a most amazing power one has over their partner for that brief time, in delivering them to such fulfillment.  As you make no complaints and have responded well, I suspect I am correct in that it gives you great satisfaction."

Natasha colored, but she did smile.  "It does."

He noticed her change.  "You are unaccustomed to talking about intimate matters."

"It has not been my highest priority."

He chuckled.  "Very well, Consort.  It has likewise not been a list item on my duty register...until now." His fingers spread her open at that and slid up her center until she sucked a breath.  "You as well, Tasia.  I desire you again."

Natasha set her glass aside and rolled onto a hip to hike her leg up over his thigh.  His touches became more directed and she shuddered with the rippling sensation that flooded her.  Then she remembered...  Reaching down, she grasped his penis and ran her fingers along its outside base.  She had learned by fortunate accident that it was a particularly sensitive place; just a soft stroke readied him in seconds.

Minutes later, clutching the footboard, her hips cradled in his palms and legs spread wide, Natasha drew several deep breaths, steadying her arch so that his stroking would not be diminished.  Indeed, she knew how to gauge her pleasure now, and she knew he had been correct from the first night: Allowing herself to feel that pleasure _did_ make her job far easier, or perhaps just as worthwhile as it could be under the circumstances.

_Probably both._

"Ah!" she exhaled and arched into his rhythm, feeling the pressure quickly building.

Some time after she succumbed yet again, as he lay his head on her belly, stroking her inner thigh, she finished off the cask and let herself sink into the pillows.

When she fell to sleep, she dimly remembered him stroking her cheek with his fingers and pulling the blanket over her.  

She slept too deeply after that to bother with dreams.

* * *

  
  

"Ahhg," she moaned when she heard her servant's gentle tone blaring in her ears.  Squinting as she turned over, she shook her head and turned onto her side.  "Now I know why I should avoid the poison," she whispered.

" _Poison_?" Ivador gasped, visibly alarmed and immediately reaching down to touch her neck.

Natasha waved her off.  "The shurrat, Ivador.  I had...  My God, I drank so much.  My eyes could detonate if I blink again."

Despite her anxiety of a moment ago, Ivador's lips twitched, threatening a full smile.  "I will order an analgesic, Consort, and return momentarily."

Natasha rolled onto her back again and flinched.  Her body was more raw than ever: She could not count how many times she and the general had had sex, but it was enough to disable her, no question.  Her legs twitched with soreness, her nipples felt a little bruised for his admiration of them, too--and to her horror she felt her insides twinge with the memory of it all...what she could remember.

But then she did remember more.

To her greater horror, Natasha slowly recalled how much wine she had taken, and then what they had said--what _she_ had said.  Searching frantically through her throbbing head, she tried to find any instance of revealing herself or contradicting what she had said.  Thankfully, even shurrat could not make her slip, but she had to be extremely careful about what she said from that point on.  She must always agree with her earlier story.  Though Tokarel claimed to be intoxicated as well, that did not say he or any possible listening devices would not commit every word she had spoken to memory.

Finding him in her mind, his expression, his tone of voice, she tried to grasp the concept that Tokarel had been as forthcoming about his private details.  If not a fabrication, it would have been a great show of trust for a man of his standing to admit his family's disgrace to a slave.  If true, did he simply need someone to talk to as well as make love to?  He obviously had an active mind, but she vaguely remembered that a relentless intellect had been a trait in Romulans.  She would be surprised to know he had no one else to relate to--though he obviously did not have anyone else on whom he could expend his other energies.

Natasha squeezed her thighs together, warding off the response she now must have when thinking about her time with him.  It still bothered her that she had accepted what she now did for her living.  Per her self-given orders and his suggestion, however, she would not think she had disgraced herself any more...for the most part.  Rather, for the most part, she would know she was doing the right thing and leave it at that.

She was doing the right thing.  Her parents could not have cursed her for that, sad as it would have made them.

She had always, always done what she had felt was right--or at least the best right for the situation.

And she would continue to.

And she would constantly remind herself of it.  But she must be careful, always.  She must never trust.

That, too, had helped her survive. 

Ivador's hand touched hers, then.  Natasha had not even noticed her return to the room, but she rose without thinking to.

"I have a vial that will drive away the effects, Consort," Ivador whispered, very softly.  "I have also brought an oil that will relax you thoroughly."

Natasha nodded and tried not to stumble into the back cubicle, dreading the sound of the bath, too, not that her dignity or nerves were any concern at that moment.

* * *

  
  

Ivador's chair flew back and onto the floor when she jumped out of it and backed up to the wall to salute.

"Servant, wait the door."

Ivador disappeared within a breath.

Natasha set her fork on the table, not having chosen what to begin with for lunch.  Though she had started at the sudden noise behind her, his entrance and Ivador's exit did not register fully at first.  Turning her eyes up to the general, she saw first that he was in the uniform she first saw him wearing in the cargo bay, and his face was hard, his back ramrod straight.  When the door closed again, he strode toward the table.  She straightened, too.  

_This is it,_ she said to herself, her adrenaline rising immediately, readying her for the confrontation.  She had always known a harsh interior had to lie within the man who had pummeled the Enterprise C and plundered its remains.  He was a warrior at heart.  She knew that much of him better than he thought, and hadn't forgotten it.  --Or had the crew gotten in trouble?  Whatever it was, she was going to find out in a few seconds.

She forced herself not to stand, but to take it as he would find her, eyes upon him, ready.

In two more steps, he was an arm's reach away.  There, he sank to a knee to thrust his hand into her hair to examine her expression intently.  She still resisted the urge to resist, to pull away.  Then he said softly, "I have hurt you, Tasia."

Surprised at his tone and his concern as much as at her expectations being dashed, she shook her head dumbly.  "No."

"You lie to me for what reason?"

"I did not lie."

"Your servant ordered a powerful analgesic for you upon your awakening," he stated.  "You cannot deny it.  I read the requisition myself."

Unable to help it, Natasha broke into a laugh.  For the first time since coming to that ship, she found herself with the upper hand, and an ironically endearing one at that.  It was such a relief, too, she half-considered maintaining it.  She chose to give him relief, though, happy enough with the moment.  "The wine," she told him, and nodded as his face began to reflect understanding.  "I drank too much wine.  I woke with a terrible headache."

She nodded when he furrowed his brow and, finally understanding, Tokarel smiled back and admitted his fault with a quiet chuckle.  Taking her hand into his to press it to his cheek, he held her pleasant gaze.  "I neglect my schedule in coming here,” he told her, “and now I must bear my afternoon without nourishment; but I was concerned.  Until today, I have not been pleased to have wasted my time."

The remnants of her smile still touching the corners of her lips, Natasha's gaze turned down to the dishes she and Ivador had begun to share.  With but a blink to decide, she asked, "Would you like to eat here?"

He embraced her fingers again in thanks, saying, "You are most kind, but I cannot." Despite his words, his eyes roamed over the leaf-wrapped rice and fish and the cream soup.  His brow twitched.  "However," he reconsidered, "I might take a morsel to sustain me." 

Reaching out, he chose a wrap and gestured for a cloth.  Natasha picked up her napkin and gave it to him.  Finishing the wrap and, with her nod, drawing a sip of her water, he leaned over to nuzzle her temple then caress her shoulder.  "You are returned to health, Tasia?" he whispered in her ear then backed enough to see her face.

"Yes," she answered, shivering at the warmth.

He smiled and touched her cheek.  "Excellent." 

With that, he stood, turned and swiftly left.

She watched the door until after Ivador returned through it.

* * *

  
  

Only a half carafe was ordered for their dinner that evening, and the general was certain her rich dinner was completed with an aromatic tea that Ivador, who washed it while they ate, promised would assist her to sleep.

Tokarel waited patiently as she drank it, watching her as he finished his wine.  When she at last placed her glass on the table, he came around the table to take her upper arm and please her from her seat.  Natasha drew a deep breath and positioned herself as she did every other time he had unclasped her gown and drew it away.  At that point, however, he changed his routine.  Taking her fingers into his, he led her further into the room.  She looked at him then at the bath, and then back at the table.

"No, Consort, you will rest tonight," Tokarel told her.  "We have talked enough and clearly you have honored our agreement.  I have asked enough of you."  Taking her to her bed, he drew her down and settled her into her pillow.  Pulling the blanket over her midsection, he removed her shoes and rubbed her feet.

Natasha watched him.  That same, small smile remained on his lips as he tended her toes and heels then ran his thumbs firmly up her arches.  It was so familiar to her now, familiar and real.  Everything was now as she lived in that present--and the past, that time that did not belong to her, might well slip away over time if she could try hard enough.  

His hands moved up her shins and wrapped around her calves to pull the muscles out again.  

_This is real,_ she knew. _This is what I own._

"Is this bed warm enough?"

"Yes."

"I had ordered the linens to be changed again."

"I saw them change them today. They're very nice."

"Please inform me if you would prefer more." He laughed a little at that.  "But then, I am still unaccustomed to your temperature.  I will always imagine you are chilled."

"It was too cold in the beginning, but I'm comfortable now." She sighed and made herself relax into the feel and his warmth.  "Very comfortable."

"Kiir, Tasia," he said softly.  "Close your eyes.  I will make no advances on you tonight."

She stared at him for confirmation until he nodded and gestured with his chin.  So she shut her eyes and took a deep breath.  Immediately, she was amazed at the speed her body responded to the new state.  "What was in that tea?" she whispered.  "I feel as though I could sleep right now."

“Servant ordered it.  I will have her inform you of its contents when she wakes you.  I understand it is a collection of common herbs from her homeworld."

"It was...effective."

"Then she has chosen well, Tasia.  Kiir..."

Only when she was on the very edge of sleeping did she realize her blanket was covering her and the door had swished shut, leaving her to the silence....  


....But the silence did not last, for she had so little wine that night and no activity.  But then, while a cheerful quietness ruled most days, it took a holiday in the Yaroviy house on any given Saturday--particularly that Saturday.  Easter had come the week before, and all of her family had all arrived from their various work and schools to visit the "country cottage," as her uncles called it, that house once belonging to her namesake, Great-Aunt Nataliya.  Their gladness to celebrate all together animated the long great room, and their various conversations were countered by pans and cabinet doors in the kitchen at the other end.  Usually it was one relative or two, but now they all had come, and it was wonderful and exciting, with so much to see and hear.

Not so much so, though, that Natasha could not find something to busy herself with close by the kitchen after her mother had last closed the oven. The words still circled...

"No, we all need to go--all together, or none will.  The government is toothless, and there are no real police, now.  Only cadres enforce, and try to make us think they follow congressional rule.  The clans have taken over the whole city and they will try to suck us all in.  It is ending..."

How they still echoed in her mind...

"...and they will not stop until they have us all under their boot!  We must plan for--"

"Ni!  Ni!  No planning today!"  Her mother held up a hand to her uncle.  "And let no one speak of those bad people--especially with babies in the room.  I want peace this one day, please.  It is Easter.  Let it be that."

"I apologize, Larisa.  I will save it.  Another day."

"And there will be many, Antonin," Larisa smiled, that time touching her brother-in-law's arm.  "Thank you."

Natasha was thrilled to see them all there--even her bothersome cousin Lazlo.  She showed off her new red boots and new coloring blocks, made certain she was a "good hostess" and greeted everyone with a bowl of boiled eggs that she had helped to decorate, answered all their questions as best he could, and now she sniffed the air as Mama's bread slowly readied in the oven.  On the kitchen table, a pot of lemon tea sat steeping.  Mama would soon mix it with fresh milk Matviy had brought that morning from the Dolinas' farm.  He had also brought butter, almonds and pears.  Natasha jiggled her booted feet in the air.  She could taste it all already.

"Not so!" said Matviy in Standard.  Shaking his blond hair from his brow, the fourteen year-old yanked out his datapad to show cousin Iva.  "Look at this!  Quasar Sentinel has a much better interface!"

"You just like the guide girl," Iva teased, leaning over to see what he had called up, "the upper half, especially."

"And you don't drool on Prince Carris!"

"I do not!"

" _Drooling_ on him!" Matvy laughed.  "I've seen you wiping your chin!"

They tussled for a minute and then quieted their laughter to look at another interface he had loaded.  Then another sound crept into the room.  Natasha looked up from her marking pad then at her brother.  "I hear Irisha," she told him in their tongue.

Matviy sighed, looking up from his game.  "I hear her, too."

"Oh...me go, Nata!" said Aunt Ella.  Cousins Iva and Lazlo looked back at their mother as she set Nikolay down, and Iva stretched out a hand for the burly toddler to come to her.  Aunt Ella bent down to continue, “I...babies...grow... much!  ...Irisha...when...little..."

Natasha smiled as Aunt Ella talked, though she only understood a little of what was being said.  Aunt Ella usually spoke Standard, and so quickly that even her brothers could be confused by her.  Finally, her aunt took a breath, allowing Natasha to reply, "Not me. Matviy get her."

Pulling off her thick cotton apron and hanging it on the corner hook, Larisa laughed.  "Or perhaps I can get my baby," she chided them all then touched her sister-in-law's shoulder.  "We both go.  Irisha is having a shy time now."

"Yes." Ella relented, nodding briskly.  "Okay."

"You are welcome to change her," Larisa joked as they left the room, her slippered feet sure on the wooden floor, her smile reaching into her eyes as she kissed Aunt Ella's cheek and wrapped her arm around her.

Natasha rolled over on the tufted rug so to catch a delicious ray of warm sun, shining through the open window, and she breathed deeply at the promise of fresh bread.  It easily must be her favorite thing, Mama's black bread with a great smear of butter.  She always made three loaves: two to cool properly for regular eating, and one to have from the oven, sticky and creamy and almost too hot to eat.  Just as she began to time the arrival of her warm treat, her cousin Lazlo dropped to his knees beside her and tugged one of her braids.

"Nata!  Let's go down to the river!"

"No going there," Natasha said in Standard, closing her eyes and waving away his hand.  "It late and water cold."

"It's warm outside!"

"She's waiting for bread," Roman informed him, smiling, too.  "And so am I!"  Twelve and on the finer side of chubby, there was no doubt her other brother liked a great many things from the kitchen, but especially their mother's bread.  His hazel green eyes sparkled beneath a wagging brow when he teased his little sister in Unified, "You will be lucky to get a crumb after we have finished."

"If I get one slice, Roma," Natasha replied, immune to his humor, "I will be happy.  We always have bread, and one piece is always mine." With that, she rolled onto her stomach again and finished her project.

Only then did she glance and see the adults break away from a knowing look between them.  They all looked unhappy.  Maybe the troubles that her mother had forbidden?  It was probably about the soldiers Matviy had warned her to avoid. The devils had grown terrible enough that people had started to move away. Would they move too? Return to Kovalivka, with her Granndfather and Grandmother Romaniak and Uncle Nazar and Aunt Irina? She had liked going there very much and looked forward to going there again in a few weeks. Would they stay there?

When she stood up with a thought to ask, her father swooped up and embraced her to see her new picture--a picture of them standing on the poppy field just outside the city.  They had shocks of yellow hair on their heads and gigantic smiles above elongated, dressed line figures, and Natasha was proud of it.

"Perhaps you will be artist, Nataliya Ilyivna," said her Aunt Tatyana as she eyed the colorful picture being pinned on the wall board.  So beautiful and elegant, always wrapped in dresses that looked to be woven from dreams, Natasha had ever been fascinated with her.  Smiling, her soft green eyes and upswept flaxen hair shone in the front window's light as she turned her tatting in her slender fingers.  She seemed to always had needlework in her hands when they were not perched atop piano keys.  "All Yaroviys must create, and your colors are lovely."

Natasha smiled back, hugging her father close once more.  "No, Aunt Tatyana, I will write stories like Tato!  And I will be person of worth someday, like Mama says!"

Ilya Fedirovich kissed his girl.  "You will be worthy in any living, Nataliya, as long as you are good, giving person."

Natasha's eyes shone with her smile.  Her father was little if not relentlessly diligent as their teacher of how to be good, even more so than her mother, who rather showed them faithfully what was proper.  "Yes, Tato.  I will be good and giving always."

Her mother came in then, tying her apron around her waist; Aunt Ella followed soon after with Irisha on her hip and cooing as adults so often did with the babies.  Seeing her mother's direction, Natasha scrambled from her father's arms to go to the kitchen and clamor with her brothers and cousins around the oven.  Laughing, Matviy and Roman scooted her back and tried to hide her behind them.

"Ni, ni," Larisa scolded gently, laughing as she always did when the boys tried to be so big.  "Kolya and Nata are littlest.  They get bread first." Tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, she shaved off the end and gave a piece of it to Nikolay; then she cut the first piece a full three centimeters thick.  Smearing a dollop of soft, fresh butter on the steaming slice, she reached out and placed it in her first daughter's hands.

Natasha took her piece with thanks and, smiling at her brother Roman, tore off a corner for him to start with.

Always when she thought of Roman, she remembered the smile he gave her then.

They all were dead a half year later, when the city fell and units crossed the surrounding countryside to take care of the rest of the Settlers who had challenged them.  All but her and Irisha.

She remembered running until her lungs might explode.

All gone.

_"They and many other things you will not get back.  I wish it were different, but now is all we own."_

The Dolinas' first lesson to them all was how not to cry--stay aware and in control, and from control, make strength.  The image of Mr. Dolina, wiry-haired and hard-eyed, glaring hard at her, his big, brown hands clasping her thin arms, would never fade in her memory.

_"Mama said they cannot steal what we do not give them.  They cannot steal our souls if we keep our souls and stay good."_

_"Yes!  So listen to your mama and stay strong!"_

She had stayed strong, always.  She had made herself tough and willing to do anything to remain alive and to keep those around her well.  And she had paid, every day, for giving up her heart to that close place inside her, where no one knew, where it was safe.

_"The Federation already warned them of what would happen if we went to war--that they would withdraw us as citizens.  The clans are making that happen."_

_"That is a lie!  We would never be those bad people!  They are devils!  Devils who kill good people!"_

_"You are angry about this?  Good!  Be angry!  It will help you where crying is useless."_

_"Mama would not say that."_

_"Your mama is gone, too, Natasha.  Never forget how that happened."_

She never did.  Every day, she knew.  Every day, she saw them fall...

_"Remember everything!  And never forget how Larisa Tyodorivna and Ilya Fedirivich Yaroviy fell!  Never forget how you have lost your family and your people!"_

Every day, Natasha made herself remember everything she could, and she spoke to them, prayed to them, envisioned their faces and the faces of her family so that they would not be lost inside her; but she also saw them as she last did, crumbled heaps on their front patio, with Coalition boots at their heads.  

Always, it replayed.  She could see her mother's hair floating down behind her dead body, and her father in a clump by her, trying to hold...  Trying...

Every day, she heard her mother's last words. 

_"I love you, Nataliya.  I will be with you always.  Do not be afraid.  Go!"_

Every day, her heart was torn.

Every day, she awoke with fear.

Nobody knew.

She never spoke of any family but her parents--and her parents with no details--because she would have to explain them, and in a way, she was relieved when she learned how completely the records had been seized and later destroyed.  She wouldn't have to talk about her beautiful family, all those good people who were her world, trapped, gassed and incinerated then blown away in the haze, as though they had never mattered.

How could she express any amount of it without the debilitating longing?  To think of her parents, her mother's sweet voice, her father's adoring embraces, caused longing enough.

She missed them all achingly, cried for them in the night until she had worn herself out with sobs and useless pleas.  The Dolinas told them wishing was useless, too, a waste of better used energy, so she pushed their memories deep within herself, where they were safe...where she was safe.  Then she could stand strong again on her small, booted feet.  Then she could fight everyone but the ones she wished she could defeat.  

_"You should love your sister more, Natasha."_

_"I keep her alive, yes?  I get her everything I can."_

_"That is not love."_

But she did fight hard from that day forward, with all her heart and blood.  She had done much right and given everything she could for others, as her father had instructed her, but to what avail, now?  Nothing would bring her family back, and now her life was moot.

_"Natasha, you must not forget how to love.  You must never forget your heart."_

_"I_ know _my heart!  I carry enough in it!"_

Natasha's eyes opened to the plain tan ceiling.

She did not tolerate the act of self pity in people, and particularly detested it in Federation citizens.  They knew nothing of loss.  They knew nothing of suffering.  She tolerated even less in herself from the moment of Orvo City's fall to that day.  Even that day.

"Havaln," said her servant.  Her voice was like her mother's bread, warm and earthen.  That placid turn of mouth, now so familiar to her: She could hear it perfectly before she spoke.  "Nvil lohk korrol cho."

Her people understood how the soul lived past death.  Her mother had told her and her brothers that they would understand their people's spirituality when they were ready.  Mr. Dolina's utter belief made her know the assuredness that came with it, and with his and others' help, Natasha had come to embrace their traditions.  If their belief was true, she would see them again.  Either way, her death was acceptable, as long as she died well, honorably, a person worthy of her people's heaven.

"Choviir horahk tru aci," Natasha whispered and took the servant's offered hand.

* * *

  
  

Her eyes focused on the shimmer in the spoon, how it glinted just slightly before the color changed with just a touch of her finger.  It was a beautiful metal she had never seen before coming to that ship, warm in her chill fingers, almost golden but smooth.

_"You are a good girl, Nata.  You will always be good.  Make Mama proud, always; be a person of worth."_

_"I promise, Mama."_

The first day, she distracted herself with walking and plans, but the plans were done and walking was useless.  Now stillness, numbness, plainness must rule between the times when her duty called her.  Or she could not console herself otherwise, now.

_"Who are those men looking at us, Matviy?"_

_"Soldiers--slaves of clan leaders.  Stay away from them."_

_"Why?"_

_"Because they eat souls.  Come, Nata!"_

But pity was weakness.  Pity was insipid.  Her life could be so much worse--they could be painfully tortured and en route to a humiliating execution.  She could never pity herself, after all she had survived and all she must do now.

 _How much I have lost..._ She turned the fork in her hand, watching the light diffuse into red.  _How much I have had to give up because of powers greater than me...  Still, I survived.  I fought hard and survived and made something of what little I had.  But what is the use of that worth when all you build must go away?_

"Consort, are you unwell again?"

Natasha shook her head and picked up the spoon.  "I am tired," she replied and focused on her soup, instead.

She had been an excellent liar since Mr. Dolina's first lessons in it, but she made no effort to be that time and did not care if the servant believed her.  It did not matter.  She finished all her portions, silent.  Yet it was not silent anymore.  Rather, her life was turning inside of herself more loudly than ever.  It once had felt safe there, from the moment Mr. Dolina had silenced her crying until the day she walked off her ship.  From there, it had turned to chaos, for her external chaos had disappeared.  But she did not try for exertions anymore in a vain attempt to avoid the inevitable.  She would not try anymore to drive them away.

She could not.

All that had kept them at bay was gone.

She knew.  She felt.

_"Look in their eyes when you shoot them, Natasha!  They killed your parents.  Remember that!  They destroyed your family.  They try to destroy our people.  Let them know why they're dead."_

_"I never forget why."_

_"Good!  --Now, focus!  Fire!  --Yes!"_

_"I did it!  Mr. Dolina!  Look!"_

_"Of course I see, girl!  Don't be a fool now!  Replace the cartridge and fire again!  --Yes!  --Yes!  Kill them all!"_

_"I would if I could!"_

An hour later, she turned another lap, but it was not for time.  It was not for distraction.  Her thick silk gown shifted against her thighs.  It all lay out in her now, the memories.  The images, the sounds, so clear and quick.

Again, she turned, and her heart quickened.

She knew...she felt...

_"Please, hear me out...  I have a deal for you."_

_"You?  Make a deal with me?  What the hell could you offer me?"_

With a turn, she felt a drift lift the draped bodice slightly, cooling her breasts slightly before the cloth lay down again.

She felt it as keenly as a pinprick.  She felt everything.

_"No chance, Yar, I find you far too valuable an asset to let go."_

_"Then I'll let myself go."_

_"Filthy bitch, you'll never escape!  How stupid do you think...  What is that?"_

Her eyes closed.  Nothing mattered but the duty she performed.  That would keep the others alive and safe.  Nothing mattered outside of that anymore...as always.  As always, her life did not belong to her.

She could feel the pit of emptiness growing in her fluttering chest.

All she had achieved, gone...

_"I know you're helping, Desha, but I don't want them touching me.  I know I look like a heathen, but--"_

_"No heathen at all.  You had good beginnings, Natasha.  You will have an excellent end, as long as you keep yourself in check."_

Everywhere she turned, was death: Death of her family and friends, death of her childhood, her innocence; death was coming to the Federation and a courageous Enterprise and most of its crew, and she was dead...supposed to be dead.  Someday, when she was longer needed, she would see to that.

She would die someday, and it would have to be by her own hand.  Nothing else seemed worthy enough to kill her.

_"I will run very fast, Natasha.  I want to be safe again."_

_"Nothing is safe."_

_"Anything is safer than this place!"_

She was not supposed to be there.  She was not supposed to be alive.  She was never to know peace.  She would never...

She wished more than ever to know how she died...how she--the other one--would die.  She knew she would not live long enough to find out.

 _"I did not say I wanted to die, Natasha, only that I did not want it to hurt_ if _it happened."_

The pool of her blood had reached the bag, and her face had been frozen in agony.

Her feet shuffled on the floor, kicking out the skirt of the ornate gown.  She was slowing down.

_"We will be together again someday, Nataliya.  We all will.  You will see."_

She was not there yet, but the memory of her pale, wet face, staring dreamily at the unforgiving yellow-white light had joined the rest.

Would they ever let her rest?  Would they ever allow her peace?

_"Done."_

The bed sat, neat but soft, and she asked herself why she did not lie upon it, sleep those endless days away?  Why did she argue with the air?  Why did she refuse to give in to the inevitable?

_"Your pacing's amazing, Tasha!  --Oh, I meant...  Anyone ever call you Tasha?"_

_"You just did."_

_"Mind it?"_

_"As a matter of fact, I--"_

_"Let's go another lap!  This course is excellent!"_

_"Fine!  --And it's Natasha!"_

Her head bowed.  

Her fingers slipped over the beads on her draping collar hem.  They glistened in the soft lights.

_"It is with great pride I award you the rank of Lieutenant to Natasha Yar, for her outstanding service and dedication to her duty.  You have without question earned your place, Lieutenant."_

_"I've worked hard to get here, so you can imagine how much this means to me.  Thank you, Captain Picard."_

All gone.  

_"I had discouraged you from fighting another war, Natasha, but now I would have taken your path, if only to avenge what they have done."_

_Done._

_"...it was an empty death, a death without purpose."_

Never hers.  Never meant to be.

_"I can take care of myself, Richard.  I know what I'm doing.  It'll be all right."_

Empty, but for them.  Alive but lifeless, but for them.  She would much rather have died.  But she never did have much choice in that matter.

_"...if you no longer feel, you may as well be dead.  Yet without question, you are not dead, Tasia..."_

She could still see Guinan gazing into her eyes, so clearly, as if the woman were right there before her, telling her again, plain and pure: "Dead." She had denied their friendship, denied her very presence.  

Natasha at last knew the meaning of obliteration; the very last thing that could be taken from her finally had been.

"Done..."

She stood and walked several paces, but then she stopped.

There was nowhere to go.

She had felt it.  She had known in her heart the moment the Enterprise C had come through the rift that something was wrong.  She spoke, and worked, but none of it belonged anymore, more with every passing hour, every passing minute.  Soon, even her body had felt foreign; all she touched was numb to her.  That sinking horrible feeling did not leave her until she had left that unreal place where she did not belong and should not live.  Relief and realness lay in death, and so she had faced those warbirds and shoved the Enterprise C into their beaks.  

There was nothing but that mission.  There was nothing but a worthy death that would take her to her family, that would absolve her many sins.

Until that, too, was denied her.  

Natasha's shoulders fell.  Her arms crawled over her ribs, crossing together.

Perhaps in both timelines she must die badly.

Perhaps there was no chance she would see them again.

Perhaps Mr. Dolina had been lying to her and it had never been possible.

She sucked a shaky breath. 

No.  He had not lied.  There was a chance.  

"It must be.  They must be there..."

_Live for now, with your eyes open, and your heart ready, and never give that life away.  Where you can, whenever you can, take all that you are able to take.  Some of us must settle for less--but not you.  You are meant for more than that.  I know in my soul, Nataliya Ilyivna, your worth is more than that._

It was all possible.  Her mother had said it was.  

"Forgive me...  I have failed you all."  The thoughts had become sounds, barest whispers from her heart, and she could not stop them, she could not silence herself.  "I gave away everything for you, and I fought to achieve all you would have desired of me, and now I must live in the shadow of my death and be pleased with it.  Always...with nothing.  Nothing.  I must be nothing...until death...."

It had to be...

_"I do not choose the last day of my life—and neither will you, when your end comes.”_

Not for her.  Not for her.

"Forgive me for what I have done!" she gasped as her knees faltered, and the thick skirt of her dress folded.  "I had tried..." Her body weakened, like every muscle had been loosened.  Her knees felt the floor.

The floor was as cold as her tears were hot, and stinging on her face as they escaped her eyes.

_"Shush, girl!  No crying!"_

"I will cry, damn you," she whispered.  "I will cry...  I am allowed to cry."

She did not hear the door above her rasps as she felt the sobs building within her, withheld for all her practice but slowly giving way to her will.  

_Make what sacrifices you must, do all you need to rise above them, and_ live _."_

"You saved my life, but you robbed me, too.  You took so much...to save me..."

She pulled a shuddering breath and looked up to the sky...  But no sky, only the yellowish lights buried behind panels.

_"I _know_ my heart!  I carry enough in it to know what is there!  And I want no more!"_

"I cannot take more..."

But there was much more, so much more, and she had never cried.  She had endured pain enough to incapacitate her, and she did not cry.  She had lost everything she loved, everything, even herself, and she had not cried.

Until now...though she did not know how to.  She did not know how to release it.  Was it something she must do?

"Will I ever see the sky again?  Have you led me to that, too?"

She did not hear the woman's steps, either, but she did feel the servant's warm palms touch her shoulders.  Already on the floor, her knees crushing her gown, her back bent and shaking with stress, she shrank against the touch.

"Leave me," she breathed, watching water fall into her hands.  "Do not stop me."

Ivador's hands left, but she did not take more than a step away.

Natasha's hands balled into fists and she imagined them slamming into things--walls, people, the floor at her knees.  She imagined the energy leaving her as she had always been able to do.  Yes, that had been allowed her, the violence and destruction.  But that was useless.  What had it served her but death and indignity?

She never imagined the relief of such a simple release as crying, even if it too was useless, and all of it was useless.

It was good to give in.

"I am dead," she whispered beneath the tears...yes, tears.  Yes, she could choose this, but could give in...as he did to death, and she would...  "I am dead, and I knew...as they knew..."

She bent and felt the tears fall again.  Over and over her back heaved and shook, and at last, with one great inhale, a sob.

And her mother's smile found her again, renting her control even more.

"I tried!  I tried very hard...and it is all dead.  They are all gone.  It is done."

It felt good to give in.

_""You will be worthy in any living, Nataliya, as long as you are good, giving person."_

"Forgive me for what I have done!"

And they fell again, she fell again, descending into all that had been denied her, and her back heaved.

"I am forsaken and nothing..."

Cries that felt alien to her, alien but pure, real...  This, she had hidden; this, she had buried with her parents, and Mr. Dolina had sealed them.

"I have done terrible things to survive, but please...let me see them again..."

The servant waited as though no time passed, through the sobs and lament, regret and release, until there was no more to fill her cries, and she was left still, exhausted and numb.

Bereft of feeling.  Drained.  Empty.

Done.

The silence resumed, deadly silence, and Natasha became entirely aware of her servant's presence.  She wished she didn't care about it, too, but she did.  She imagined herself hauling around and striking her, throwing the woman to the floor and beating her for all she had done to help get her so far into that life she swore she would never, never live.  

But then she imagined Ivador crying out...as she cried, and Natasha shuddered with cold dread.  She had become what made one think to be violent, to hurt another person...everything Mr. Dolina knew she must be willing to be, and she had been without thought.  She had needed to be like her enemy in order to fight them.  Desha channeled that hatred and violence into form, like tuning a machine.  But that was not her soul, so tightly clasped within her.  Or had it not been?

 _No!  No!  You are not those devils...though you have killed in cold blood.  You have taken life to preserve yours and others'.  You have done as they did...as they are doing now while here you sit, dead while breathing, unknown to both the devils and the angels, never to live as Natasha Yaroviy again._

The thoughts came so easily now...alongside her parents, standing before death with their heads held high then falling to the ground in heaps...  Her mother's hair, floating in the air before at last resting on the cement that would become their tomb...

Giving in...

They had given in and affected more good than all of her fighting had done.  They had sacrificed themselves without lifting a fist or risking their soul.

_"Hear me...  I have a deal for you."_

Done.

"I am nothing.  All I have done, and I am nothing."

She must give in.  She would join them all someday.  She had to believe it.  She wanted so to believe it.  But she was not there yet.  There was still one reason to live.  That living death could not be completed.  Not yet.  Not yet.

Everything around her slowed.

The world was still around her, and she was still on her hands and knees.  Falling to a hip, she shuddered and shook her head.  She could not raise it.  She did not want to raise it.  She had held it for so many years....

It was a relief to give in.

"I have not cried since my parents were murdered," she finally whispered, in her tongue, in all her truth even as she still did not look at her still unmoved servant, "the last time I had everything taken from me." Tears welled again and she let them fall again, and the numb was invaded by the hot, salty water stinging her flushed cheeks.  She wiped uselessly at it all before letting her arms drop, her shoulders slacken.  "I watched them die from our window before the men destroyed our house.  And my brothers, all my family...  Everything I loved and knew was taken from me.  Now everything I know is gone...and it will never...  There is no one left." She pulled a deep breath, and the breath brought her new strength, strength enough to finally turn a look up to Ivador.  "There is nothing left of who I am, Ivador.  Nothing I can hold in my hands."

The Romulan woman stared compassionately back, waiting for more words for several seconds before bending her knees and joining Natasha on the floor.  Hesitantly at first, she at last decided and took Natasha's hand.  Natasha was too exhausted to pull it away, much as habit told her to.

She was no longer listening to that voice.

"I long to comfort you more, Consort," Ivador said gently, "but I cannot, though I understand your remorse.  I too lost my parents, and I too was captured into the rank of tevol'oc; however, I had much less adjustment to commit to.  I was raised in the caste and understand it, and I understood fully the risk of working with the people I had, and losing the honor of my birth-given rank.  Fortunately, I was a most unpromising crewperson." 

"You are the opposite of that to me."

Encouraged, Ivador rubbed Natasha's fingers, offering a tiny smile.  "I find I am more suited to service; I derive more accomplishment in doing well for others than I have in any other occupation.  As the youngest of three, I had learned to look after the needs of the family in my youth." There, she sighed.  "In a perfect outcome, that will be the case again." But she shook her head at that, and she reached out to stroke Natasha's hair with ginger fingers.  "But again, I was born Romulan, and enjoy the benefit of knowing my culture and never having lost it."

Natasha coughed, feeling the well threaten again.  The servant was close, but she still knew nothing of it.

"I am sorry for your loss."

"I want no pity."

_You took that from me, too, Mr. Dolina._

"I would never think to insult you, Consort.  You are not nearly so wretched, and even were you, I would say nothing of it.  But I do understand your duress to some degree.  It has been difficult for you to adjust to the lack of autonomy."

"Being alone most of the day has been difficult," Natasha confessed before she could think better of it.  "I never expected it would plague me this much.  It has brought out feelings I have not allowed."

Ivador shrugged before thinking better of the move.  Dipping her head briefly in apology, she said, "Yes, you must be confused by the lack of purpose.  This is not unusual for new tevol'oc.  Most staff chant quietly to themselves during their isolation to maintain focus and purpose, and you do not know even that."

Natasha did not hide her surprise.  " _Chant_?"

"A focus of the mind and control of the body through repeated phrases geared toward their chosen goal," Ivador explained.  "Though I knew a form of chant since my childhood, I have truly enjoyed learning the method employed by the tevol'oc.  It is at times better than sleep.  Are you familiar with the practice of meditation?"

"I know what it is.  It was a side course at...at a school I had attended.  I did not enjoy it."

_"Your focus is exemplary in all practices but this, Yar.  You laugh at me now, but you need this, the way you operate."_

"Perhaps, Consort, you can think of it as motion within your mind, toning and working your every sense and thought.  It is a different kind of discipline, and yet--if I may express it for myself--much more challenging than mere physical exertion."

"That sounds like a Vulcan practice."

Ivador frowned.  "With great respect, Consort, I would not assert that observation outside of our company.  We Romulans are _not_ fond of Vulcans."

Settling herself more comfortably on the floor, Ivador continued, "We all serve the Empire, each of us, as one; our duties interconnect us.  This meditation centers us around the core purpose of duty, bound by honor, and our place in the whole." Even more quietly than her usual soft tone, she added secretly, "Indeed, it is like what Vulcans once practiced long ago, but ours is a far more useful application.  In it, we become entirely aware of ourselves and our place without loss of function; time, weariness, routine, all become secondary as we point our every energy to our duty and personal goal.  It is not all the effort we must make to serve our duty well and with dedication, but it is a good tool, an addition to our training, particularly for staff.  It helps train our mind to focus and firmly adhere.  For you, Consort, it is another excellent method of passing the time with some purpose, and learning some excellent examples of pronunciations in the process."

Natasha furrowed her brow.  She had not lied when she had alluded to finding meditation boring; however, the promise of a diversion, as ever, was too tempting to resist.  It hung before her like a wonderful prize for all she had given away that day.  Her eyes were still swollen and her nose was horribly clogged.  She was exhausted in ways that she had never been.  Her body felt heavy and limp.  The memories lingered--but then, they always would.  They would always be her constant companions, and in truth, she would never give them up.  It was all she had to prove her soul.

"What do you do?" she asked.

The servant's eyes cast aside to the materials she had brought.  "Your lessons await you, Consort."

"My lessons go nowhere, and I am in no state of mind to study.  I doubt I can manage even this.  I feel so unwound....  I could sleep and never wake again, and I would be happy for it."

Her neck bent again.  She had voiced it.  At last, she had voiced what she dared never even think...but knew...had always known...

_"I love you, Nataliya.  I will be with you always.  Do not be afraid."_

She so wanted to be with them.

Ivador, examining her for many moments upon her silence, at last said carefully, "Consort, respectfully, you must never show your weakness to any but me.  You will endanger yourself and the General's honor with any show of...infirmity.  I will help you recover from this despair you feel, but I can do nothing if your reputation is compromised."

"You will never erase my despair, Ivador," Natasha assured her darkly, her eyes growing full again.  "Nothing will relieve the memory of what I have lost, and what I have done.  There is no more hiding nor denying it, now."

"I can help you deter its effects." 

"I have been doing that all of my life."

"Perhaps my method is better."

"Then teach me."

Ivador glanced back at the table again.  "I can do so in your--"

"Obey me!"  Natasha shot back, her fresh, spilling tears and shaking anew with ire and stress.  "I am on the edge of my life!  You started the topic.  _Finish_ it.  Tell me how it is done, Servant."

Ivador touched her collar with a bow of her head.  "I serve you, Consort." Before speaking again, however, she moved to her feet and retrieved a wet cloth.  Natasha took it and wiped her face, and then blew her nose into it.  It was embarrassingly full, and it took several attempts to clear it.  She did feel much better when it was done, however, and nodded her thanks.  The servant disposed of the cloth then returned once more to offer Natasha her hand and help her up.  

She could have cried again to feel the slack in her body.  All she wanted to do was sink to her knees again.  But Ivador was there, still holding on to her, her pleasant face warm and certain.

_"Tell me your heart, Nata.  What does it tell you today?"_

She felt her fingers grow warm around Ivador's.  She did not let go.

"I will show you, Consort, the method I was taught when I came into this service.  The dialect I use is Rul'siat, so some of this will be familiar and aid in your education."

Natasha watched Ivador position herself: feet slightly parted, knees relaxed but supporting.  Now the women faced each other, offset slightly.

"We stand like this now so you will have a clear view of what is before you.  For the beginning, focus on something, as far away as you can."

Natasha sighed at the somber ambers and tan tones-- _Is this all I will see for the rest of my life?_ she wondered then suddenly shook her head.  Distracting herself was easy enough when she had a purpose before her; she had pressed Ivador for good reason.  The hurt remained, the swollen eyes and throat, the exhaustion and lethargy, and she was yet tempted to sink to her knees again, but now that she had managed to stand up, she chose to lock her knees and try.  It was a difficult dichotomy: She knew security in restraint but had discovered relief in release.  She wanted more of that.  It was so new, and it had taken so much pain from her chest and had allowed her thoughts she had never allowed, ideas, and...hope...

Unaware of the other woman's efforts, Ivador checked Natasha's position and pressed down her shoulders gently.  Then she quietly explained, "This is the initiation: There are twenty-three levels.  --But this should not intimidate you.  After the first four, the remainder are only a matter of learning them." The servant took a deep breath and reached forward.  "I am the center," she prompted in a hushed tone, closing her fingers on a handful of air then lowering her hand to her side, "and all surrounds me..."

"I am the center, and all surrounds me," Natasha repeated, copying the gesture.

"I stand in the middle, my face to the star.  --Then close your eyes, Consort."

"I stand in the middle, my face to the star." And she closed her eyes.

"The great star feeds me..."

"The great star feeds me."

"...lights my way, gives us strength to serve with honor.  --Now open your eyes, and fix them on a bright point--any point will suffice when you are only learning.  Eventually, we will need to find an appropriate symbol."

"The great star feeds me, lights my way, gives me strength to serve with honor." Natasha found the spigot in the bath in her sight and focused on it.

"...feeds my body so that I will honor my duty."

"Feeds my body so that I will honor my duty."

"Very good, Consort."

Natasha wished she felt any accomplishment--felt anything but the lingering weight within her chest, but she took the compliment and the diversion for what it was worth.

"Again."

"Yes," Natasha whispered.  "Again."

She had done this before.

She would do it again.

Until the end.

* * *

  
  

"Again?"

"Yes, Consort."

They grasped a handful of air together.

"Ul odrra biku hveh al gishti maushtoh."

"I am the center, and all surrounds me."

Their lessons again waited.

"Ul nivi mentrahkavor ika'gishti ar iglahk."

"I stand in the middle, my face to the star." She closed her eyes.

After their first session, her watchful servant had decided that this lesson was more important.  Language would come more easily with the consort's ease, she had said when she came in and set the tablets aside.  She admitted, as well, that she had been enjoying their sessions.

"Al iglahk pash'ik..."

"The great star feeds me..."

Her words came more smoothly now as the Romulan words began to blend with hers.  Ivador's foreign tongue grasped the rhythm, wrapping around the phrases, almost songlike, but after several minutes, their voices merged, and she barely felt like she was whispering the words, but could hear herself, soft, chanting, and Ivador, in a deeper tone, gentle, assured, almost comforting, or comforted...

"...mentrahkavor ika'gishti ar biku..."

"...center, and all surrounds me..."

The phrases drifted, one to the next...

Suddenly, she caught herself on the table and jerked her head up to find Ivador smiling at her.  Natasha turned her eyes away.  "Focus," she muttered.

"Do not be disturbed," Ivador told her.  "I did the same when I first learned this method, and I was not entirely new to the practice." Reaching out, she placed the other woman's fingers on the end of the table.  "Until you are better adjusted, you may support yourself.  Shall we begin again, Consort?  Are you well enough to continue?"

Though the need for such support stung her, she nodded.  "Yes."

"Jul."

"Jul." Natasha drew a slow breath and forced herself back into focus.  "Again."

"Ul odrra biku hveh al gishti maushtoh."

* * *

  
  

She turned in the usual spot, but now smoothly as the words circled through her, and the knowledge...

_I am called Tatyana Ilyivna.  My parents were Fedir Matviykovich and Olivia Gregorivna.  I was born on eleven April, 2314.  I escaped my war-torn homeworld six months after its upheaval to work on a cargo vessel.  I left it to look for another life, a career worth my interest when my meeting Captain Garrett found me on a losing ship in a battle I did not understand, and then found myself here._

Her gaze drew around the room.

_Here._

_Ul odrra biku hveh al gishti maushtoh._

"I am the center, and all surrounds me."

She would mould herself, there, in the now.  It would take time, but she would do it.

It was all she owned.

* * *

  
  

"Tsurrhko ar gishti mi'urrv al pah'innu dioch'lu tik."

"Tsurrhko ar gischti murrv al pah'innu diosch'lu tik."

She consciously pressed her shoulders down, willing away the images and the voices.

"Puocha ar karmmil rek ul mi'urrv ar pah'inib."

"Puocha ar karmel rrek ul murrv ar pahnib."

Her gaze broke from her focus to find the woman across from her.

"Your repetition of the words improves."

"I make the same mistakes with them."

"That will pass."

"Yes.  It will."

She only spoke Unified to her servant now.  The general still would need to bear with Standard as she pleased to use it, until she felt better in control.  But Ivador must hear her, now.

"I think we should add the next stage, now."

"What is that?"

"Your goal.  You must enamor yourself to a particular goal that is aligned or associated with your duty, to strengthen your purpose to serve well." Ivador smiled.  "I have been focusing on steadiness, and I believe I make some progress."

"You have done more than that."

"My many efforts alongside need serve the result.  I was _not_ known for steadiness in my youth.  And you Consort?  What do you choose?"

Natasha paused to consider voicing what she knew she needed.  But there was no real choice, there.  She _had_ to do it.  "To forget," she said then clarified, "To relinquish what I had come from."

Ivador's arched brow rose curiously.  "That is your desire?"

"I must start over, Ivador," Natasha stated, feeling her remorse resurface alongside her resolve.  Three days later, she still felt it welling up inside of her, still felt the sickened tremor deep within her.  "I will always carry my origins and the lessons that made me, but I also need to let go of what is behind me and make this my world.  I doubt it will take me any less time than your goal took you, but I need to try."

The servant needed no more explanation.  She bowed her head briefly and touched her charge's arm.  "If I may, Consort, I think your courage is remarkable," she said quietly.  

"I have no courage," Natasha replied.  "Not anymore, nothing like I once had.  I feel none of it now.  I only know that I need to survive."

First touching Natasha's arm, Ivador reached out and grasped another handful of air.  "Ul odrra biku hveh al gishti maushtoh.  Ul nivi mentrahkavor ika'gishti ar iglahk....  Whisper your goal to yourself, Consort, three times, and keep it in your mind as you continue your rounds, when you are comfortable enough to."

"I am the center," Natasha whispered, "and all surrounds me.  I stand in the middle, my face to the star." Then she added, "Let me forget and move forward.  Let me forget and move forward.  Let me forget and move forward." She paused.  "What is that in Romulan?"

"Al gecckorrho dioch'lu tik," Ivador supplied.

"Au gechkorro..."

"--Dioch'lu tik."

"Diosch'lu tik."

The words continued then circled again, and Natasha began to feel them circle in her mind, too.

"Let me forget and move forward.  Au gechkorro diosch'lu tik...."

Vaguely translating but, more, feeling the rhythm, feeling the order and soothing repetition, she likewise felt her shoulders begin to relax and a light, swimming feeling begin to take over her--not numb, not beyond the room, but like...floating on water, knowing one presence, but content to float, and...

"Let me forget and move forward.  Au gechkorro diosch'lu tik...."

Their words grew quicker and softer, perfectly in unison, one native Romulan and one novice at the language, but they did come together after a time, when the rounds blended and her goal, the one she truly thought, began to sound in her mind just over the spoken commands to serve and gain strength...strength in her goal, strength through her duty...  And yes, that brand of intoxication was most powerful of all, a kind of addiction she had served herself since girlhood: complete immersion in her condition.  It had always made her incredibly effective...and successful.

It would again.  It must again, until the end.  And there would be an end.  There would be an end.

_Let me forget and move forward.  Let me forget and move forward.  Let me forget...._

Natasha fell forward yet again--stopping their round again and abruptly.  She almost cursed her fall, but looking up, she found Ivador's small but understanding smile warmly regarding her, and felt her gentle hands as she helped to steady her charge.  Their eyes held for a moment, one assuring, the other reassured, both tevol'oc in new duties, though all the insecurity she felt about those people remained.  

But it was fading.  She cared for her servant, as her servant obviously cared for her, whether or not for selfish purposes.

But were they not all selfish?  Did they not act for their desires?

They none of them were free, but could act within those constraints to serve themselves and others.

Indeed, it was fading.  It all would.  She would do this.

She would remake herself.

Again.

"Again, Ivador."

"I serve you, Consort."

"Tasia.  I call you by your name.  Honor me with mine when we are in private.  You have earned that.  Call me Tasia."

Ivador smiled and bowed her head.  "I serve you, Tasia."

She still could not know if it all was a very well executed facade made to form her, make her think and do as they wanted, or if she was seeing them as they were and that the woman before her really did want to help "consort" and see her comforted.  It was the servant's duty to, after all, even as she stroked Natasha's hands then let them go.  Natasha might well have wanted the former for all the caution it would inspire and therefore keep her straight and careful.  But she couldn't deny that she wanted the realness and kind intentions more.  She would just have to work harder to be cautious.  Thankfully, she was not against working harder.

Natasha flicked a little smile back and nodded her gratitude.  Then she continued, "Let me forget and move forward.  Let me forget and move forward.  Let me forget and move forward....  The great star feeds me...."

* * *

  
   
"Sha'olhk ul mishti vitrahalb,  
Kaohorr igol mechirr au vab odrischkib.  
Kamolohk wist manauhar,  
Kom au tobruluh."

As the song faded away upon the last note, Natasha's eyes slowly opened.  The room was a little brighter now, perhaps because she had nearly fallen asleep, perhaps because their breakfast awaited them.  The strong Torhkava tea awaited her, promising her further relaxation, and the braised maccha would soon guarantee her a full morning of satisfaction.  Meanwhile, sitting in her dressing chair, she watched as Ivador's fingers continued to gently pull and rub each muscle in her arm from her elbow to her fingertips. It was an amazingly good feeling. Natasha had already sworn to never stop appreciating how well her treatments felt, and now how much she liked Romulan music--for all Ivador had been serving her, anyway. It was easy-toned yet haunting, and it all had been epistolary so far, all telling a history or teaching a lesson.

"That was beautiful, Ivador," she said.  "What is that one about?"

"It is the story of a young woman who leaves her school and lover to fight a rebellion, a war of conscience in the distal belt colonies.  And yet she questions the conscience that drove her, longing for the man to whom she had been engaged and had waited to marry, fearing that she has lost too much in her idealism." Ivador's little grin turned a little bashful at that.  "It is a lay of Kiarrgor, but a controversial song on Romulus; however, I appreciate the sentiment...and I like the melody." 

Natasha smiled, too.  "How did you end up on a ship so far from home, Ivador?"

Ivador's smile turned inward.  "I was a foolish, naive girl.  I came to know people who were not as honorable as I had believed.  For a time, after my parents' deaths, I had been curious about other worlds, and their lies and promises easily seduced me.  My capture, however disgraceful and life-altering, was in its way a great favor to me.  I was greatly relieved to be freed from that path, even while my work was menial."

"This seems like a large ship."

"It has a healthy complement."

"How did the general find you for me, among all the staff?"

"An inquiry was sent to the supervisory staff requesting the drawing of a female tevol'oc of moderate birth experienced in personal caretaking.  Truthfully, despite the number aboard, I was the only one aboard who met the general's qualifications, and so I was presented to the general by my supervisor, Unuhki." Ivador picked up a tool to trim a loose piece of cuticle then continued her work.  "It was a surprising day."

"Were you nervous?"

"I was.  I had no reason to be, but I did not know at that time why my experience had been questioned, and the general, well-informed of my circumstance for being board his ship, was properly cautious and interrogated me thoroughly.  Whatever I had answered--which I admit I can hardly recall now--must have satisfied him, however.  I was promptly scheduled for training and sent to you with only time enough to collect materials and read a summary about humans.  It all happened in less than eight shuti."

"You seemed very nervous when we first met," Natasha remembered.

"I had been as anxious as you had been unsettled," Ivador agreed.  "But mine was for wanting my new situation and to perform far above my poor reputation in the midst of serving a woman I did not know, and of alien birth.  I hardly knew what to expect."

"I hope I was not too difficult."

"You were kinder than I had hoped.  I have been most grateful to be in your service, and will be for the length of my contract to you."

Natasha's lips turned up.  "I do not insult you by saying I wish you could return to Kiarrgor, despite how well you care for me."

Ivador squeezed Natasha's hand and bowed her head in thanks.  "You do not insult me." Refreshing the oil on her hands once again, Ivador started on the other arm.  "Have you songs from your homeland, Tasia?"

"Many.  My people's homeland has a rich musical history."

"Do you remember any?"

Natasha's eyes grew heavy as she breathed the aroma of the fresh kib tree oil.  Ivador's first choice had remained her favorite.

_"Ah, Nataliya, this will do.  Yes, I will play, and you will sing this.  It is called the Flowers of Autumn Days."_

_"I love flowers, Aunt Tatyana!  Please, may I learn now?"_

_"My darling Nataliya!  No, no, it is not really about flowers.  Ah, but you will understand that later.  Here!  Here is the song.  Now listen..."_

She felt her mouth draw up in a smile as the piano filled her ears, and the view of her aunt's beautiful, graceful fingers appeared behind her eyes.  "Yes...though I might need to think about it."

"Is it a colony song?"

"No.  The poem that made it is very old, and from the country north of my people's.  It was written by a great poet hundreds of years ago."

"Was he a state writer?"

"State writer?"

"They are hired by the Senate to write praises of the Empire."

Natasha immediately could tell Ivador was not fond of that form, and she grinned at the now ironic question.  "No, he was the very opposite."

"A liberal?"

"Very much so.  He was often in trouble with the rulers." Thinking on that, she now wished she had read those works more often.  Then again, she now wished she had done many things...

_Forget and move forward..._

"Liberal factions exist in the Empire," Ivador told her, "some quite radical, as much so as the extreme conservatives; both are frowned upon in the capital, though both have made their voices heard." She turned Natasha's hand over to slowly massage her palm.  "And so your author wrote his poetry into songs to be shared?"

"No.  His were only the words.  His name was Pushkin.  About a hundred years ago, some of his short poetry was used as introductions for a series of small pieces.  My aunt taught that part of it to me when I was a young girl because it was short and relatively simple, though I listened to it from time to time later, after I left my homeworld."

She had listened to the suite many times in her quarters, in those precious off-duty minutes, when she could be somewhere else, and someone they did not know...

_Forget that place...  Move..._

She began to hum, because she knew Ivador was quite curious now, and would ask.  She remained reclined in her seat as the servant drew out every possible tension in her long, slender arms.  She felt the words return to her, and then find her tongue....  


"The flowers of autumn days  
Are sweeter than the firsts of plains.  
For they awaken an impression,  
Strong, although it may be sad,  
Just as the pain of separation  
Is stronger than the sweet of date."

And she continued to hum as the playing continued inside her, and the memory drifted along with it, and she saw her own hands rested on her aunt's beautiful silk skirt....

"An excellent vision and interesting melody, Consort.  I would like to hear the entire piece."

"Maybe someday we can find it."

And she understood the poem now, just as her aunt had promised.  Her eyes stung as the words flowed through her, and she felt them.

"Tasia?"

Yes, these memories she would take with her always, despite the pain, despite the want.  She would remember her beloved family and people all the more now as she discarded the rest.  She must discard the rest, not only for safety, not only for preservation, but for herself.  She must let go and move forward, yet again...again that one last time.

"Consort?  Are you unwell?"

Natasha's lips turned up.  Ivador was so cautious of her moods now, and twice as watchful.  "I was thinking...remembering." And then she remembered that her servant also did not take that excuse without question, too.  "I have been understanding many things in the last few days." 

"Your state has improved greatly since that unfortunate incident."

"It may have, but there is so much, much more than you know." 

_"What you keep inside of you might become too powerful to control.  It's already shown its effect.  What will happen next time you're unable to contain your responses?  Can you say?"_

She might be able to now.

"Coming here was not the start of my fall.  I had been moving so hard, I had been so determined, I had been able to stay ahead of it most of the time.  I had been trained to put aside my grief when I was a child, to not regret and to accept all that came to me.  But that is over." Her eyes turned down to the other woman's.  "I have lost everything that I cared about, Ivador, long before I ever saw the Federation ship, much less stepped aboard it.  I have been falling since shortly after learning that song.  I cannot say when I will stop, but at least I have accepted that it will happen."

"I will not allow you to fall," Ivador gently asserted, sliding her hands down to Natasha's to hold them.  "If you permit me, I will support you."

"You might not be able to help it," Natasha told her.

"I will believe in my ability until I fail at it," Ivador returned.  "You have shown me the worth of belief, and I believe you must credit yourself more.  You claim to fall, and yet your strength and resolve have never been in question in my eyes.  There has been uncertainty and pain, but you have come to your feet again."

"You have known me only a short time.  And you know only what I show you."

"I believe in my impression," she insisted kindly then continued, "Indeed, I have been in service to you only a short time; however, Romulans are observant creatures, and my duty requires me to observe you most closely.  Adhere to your goal, to forget and move forward, and I will be your guard.  You will achieve what you desire.  I have sworn to protect you with my life, Tasia, and so I will.  You will not fall as long as I am there to hold you."

Natasha squeezed her fingers and felt a return of the affection.

"I know."

* * *

  
  

_"Al gecckorrho dioch'lu tik..."_

The words echoed in her mind, Ivador's Romulan an echo above her thoughts, which a month ago would have annoyed her after so many hours, but its distraction level was precisely what she needed, now.

And now was what mattered,

_"Al iglahk pash'ik, tsurrhko ar gishti mi'urrv al pah'innu dioch'lu tik, puocha ar karmmil rek ul mi'urrv ar pah'inib."_

She drew out her hand and wrapped her fingers around the spoon handle to scoop a vegetable roll and a dollop of gravy onto her plate.  The gravy smelled oddly floral, though rich.  The rice-like dish, too, had a heady flavor that went down better than she at first had expected.  But then, she had quickly grown accustomed to the heavily flavored foods, possibly more quickly than anything else.  It reminded her of her mother's meals, cooked all day over a slow heat on a real stove, in the kitchen with the red and yellow tile...

How she could still see that image.

 _"Focus on the now, what's right ahead of you; live as though each moment is your last moment,"_ Mr. Dolina had pressed upon them, and yet she had taken him with her, that great influence, and great disaster.

She would think in the present, always, but she would never discard those memories, those sweet, loving memories that had made her, that had kept her soul in tact when everything else in her life had seemed to conspire to ruin her.

_"You're not supposed to be here."_

Those other memories, that other past, the past of a dead woman, that would go.  She would make it go.

_Let me forget and move forward...._

She was forsaken, and so now she must forsake.  

Indeed, she would keep her people, her family, her culture.  That had never been in question, and never would.  She was born a Settler and would die one.  What she had done when she left them, what she had worked so hard to achieve and rightfully prided herself in, her chosen profession and place and all the achievements she had earned along the way, had been consigned to the dead woman to be...  

_"It cant be anything but rewarding to know you've done so well."_

_"You don't know the half of it."_

_"I'm well aware of that.  Is anyone else?"_

She had known so much, even when she knew nothing.

_"You're not supposed to be here."_

_"Where am I supposed to be?"_

But Natasha had known already, even when she too had known nothing.

She had felt it keenly, straight through to her soul, with only a glance Guinan's way.  She had felt it.

Everything she had done...

Her toes moved inside warm silk slippers.  These were not the duty-grade boots she had known for thirteen years.  But she remembered the feel of them, how they had encapsulated her feet without any question of support or temperature.  Federation standard work boots, brown, then black, were made to hold the wearer in complete regulation.  They had been better than anything she had known since she had grown out of her red boots, and she never took for granted the privilege of putting them on.

Now she wore slippers.  They were cushioned and amazingly soft, and in lieu of support, they offered sensation.  Her aunt had worn a similar style, and now Natasha knew why.  Hardly noticing her feet before, now she knew how comfortable they were with but a shift of a toe, and despite their covering on the sides and bottoms of her feet, the warmth was as stable if not luxurious.

 _Will Guinan will remember me, as she had remembered the other one?_ she mused.  It would not matter in the end, but the idea piqued her interest for a moment as she stirred a slice of the roll around the corner of her plate, then lifted the morsel to her lips.  She might not be entirely lost in her friend's memory.  That was a nice thought.

_The great star feeds me, lights my way, grants me strength to serve with honor, enriches my body so that I will honor my duty._

Eating the bite, her lips turned up slightly.  Like everything else, it was delicious.

"You are quiet this evening," Tokarel observed above the lip of his wine.  "Yet you look well-rested."

"I'm starting to feel better."

"Were you unwell?"

"No.  Only...  I have been very emotional.  I have had to come to terms with my life"

"I see." He sipped then returned to his plate.  Parting a pastry with a turn of his tines, he asked, "What has brought on your recovery?"

"Servant assists me," Natasha answered, working not to call her by her name.  She still slipped sometimes.

"How so?"

"She taught me a method of relaxing myself and focusing my thoughts."

Tokarel's brow raised.  "Oh?  And what method is this?"  At her pause, he added, "She will suffer no repercussions if you merely continue to practice honesty with me."

"It is the marous'hal kagill," Natasha told him.

To her surprise, the general's hard concern melted into real pleasure.  "An excellent idea!" he said.  "I am shamed to not have considered the idea for you myself.  I have not practiced a chant since my school days, which explains how I could have neglected you."

"Why did you give it up?"

"A number of people in my circle felt it was too Vulcan a practice.  Perhaps I agreed.  More than that, I felt more inclined to move.  Scaling the ridge line of Kopohk with the wind in my face was more to my taste.  In those moments, deep thought and inspiration never elude me."

Natasha sighed silently.  The passion she felt in his voice alongside the idea of hard, physical exertion filled her with annoying longing as faithfully as it had the first time he had mentioned it.  Indeed, she had chosen her goal well.  "Then you approve," she said.

"I would approve of anything that brought you ease within the honor of our agreement, given I am made aware of it.  Furthermore, know that Servant will be rewarded for assisting you beyond her assigned duty.  How do you think I should reward her, Tasia?"

Natasha thought for a moment as she stirred a piece of bread in the reddish gravy left over from her vegetables.  "She is dedicated to her duty: She wants to serve me and never complains--rather, she shows her gratitude with every word.  But I can tell she misses her family.  Is there a way for her to contact them?"

Tokarel raised his brow.  "You again impress me, Consort," he remarked, and then thought for a moment.  "Her brother, I understand, is assigned at this time on the homeworld.  However, any contact she would enjoy with him would walk alongside disgrace." His eyes turned askance a moment; then his lips turned up.  "I may have a solution.  Should she continue well with you upon our return to Romulus, I will set a small plan into action, and arrange a meeting if one is desired by him."

Natasha caught his gaze upon the mention of their destination.  "How long is it to Romulus?" she asked.

"Eight days."

She grimly did the math.  It felt like an age and it had only been just eighteen days.  So much had happened to her in less than three weeks there.  Ages upon such an age awaited her.

 _Live in the moment,_ she reminded herself.  _Let it go.  Move on.  Forsake.  Move forward..._

"Then shall I take these extra efforts for your servant?"

"If you think it proper."

"The reward comes from you, Tasia.  Shall I give it to Servant?"

She stared at him, again reminded of a habit he seemed to want her to pick up: verbally ruling her desires.  She understood its power, though for all her assertiveness in the past, she had never been willful for personal gain, and so he often felt the need to prompt her.  "Yes.  Please give Servant the reward you see fit."

"You need never 'please' me, Consort," the general replied, though approving of her command.  "Your respectful tone is sufficient."

She bowed her head in a single nod then parted a roll on her plate with her fork.  It annoyed her faithfully, but she knew what he was doing.  Just like Ivador had been, he was teaching her about her new rank and how to behave in it.  What could she do but learn?  _Move forward..._

"I would like you to give Servant the reward you see fit, Ajor."

His lips turned up.  "It shall be done, Tasia, in your name."

With that, they continued with their meal, and Natasha felt oddly liberated by that simple confession and its reward.  At the same time, she knew that Tokarel was handling her very effectively, working for her trust--and knowing without question that her real trust would only be delivered alongside his fulfilled promise.  Were it all genuine, there would be no losers.  Were it all a lie, it would not matter to her, and the others would have only been bought time.  Again, no losers, only in that worst case, a delay of the inevitable.

She poured a generous helping of the yellowish gravy over the roll she had cut and felt her shoulders relax.  "What is the name of this?"

"Onorchulgavok," he answered.  "It is a regional flavor used with dishes such as this.  Only the gavokich can be grown in Rul'siat."

"What kind of plant is it?"

"A tuber.  It grows in mountainous rocks.  Someday, I will show you."

Her mouth twitched up as she glanced at him.  "I'd like that.  I want to learn." 

"Another for our list," he commented with a smile.  "Perhaps we should not overwhelm you."

"I never forget what I see," she said and speared her piece, "and learning what I should know won't overwhelm me."

Tokarel considered her again as she ate, and she found herself looking back at him a few times to see him still diverted.  She knew by then to wait out his topic—certainly he had one to broach, else he would have continued his meal and finished his wine.  But he did neither of these things.

At last, he reached into the pocket of his tunic then withdrew his hand.  Placing it on the table, he now silently asked for her attention.  Natasha gave it, setting down her fork and wiping her mouth before leaning back in her chair and placing her arms on the rests.  Ivador had been teaching her social posture in their time, too, and the general had visibly been pleased by this progress.  Just then, too, he tipped his head in a sidelong nod, a motion of respect.  Then he spoke again.

“An item was found among the articles you wore onto my ship,” he told her.  “The laundry assistant was unaware of its use, and so it was brought it to me for inspection.”

Natasha blinked, and at first felt herself stiffen beneath her heavy gown to think she had left some insignia or other identification upon herself.  Tokarel, as ever, gave nothing immediately away.  So she asked, “Inspection?”

“We did not know what it was.  After some study, it was deemed innocuous, and so I return it to you on the condition you tell me what it is.”

She held his gaze another few seconds as he waited for her response.  She offered none.  Then he turned and opened his hand.  Her eyes flicked down.

“Ajor,” she breathed, unable to stop the sting in her eyes nor the leap in her heart that immediately met the view.  All of her tension melted away with relief, and her body grew warm and wanting.  “You…" Suddenly, her native tongue found her--nothing else could pass her lips to see that one thing...

The one thing she could hold in her hands.

"I thought it was gone forever.  I had been so tired that day, I had not thought to take it from my pocket when Iv-- Servant took the clothes away." She forced herself to pull her eyes up to his so she could ask him as he would desire, "I can have it back?”

“You will tell me what it is, and what it does,” he repeated.

She smiled.  Of course they would not know without some particular study.  Obviously, they had no cultural database from Earth.  They would think it some sort of insidious weapon--which of course it could be, used improperly, but that was not the answer he needed.   “You thread string...  I mean, you pull a succession of string knots together to create a fabric, and combine various knots to build larger designs..."

_"We will start with threading with the hook to make a hat from this ball, as you remember more of that.  Then we will thread with needles and make socks, and then we will practice patterns....  You are left handed?_

_"Mr. Dolina taught me how to use both hands.  I start with the left first so I do not forget."_

_"Okay.  You will learn left-handed first so you can mirror me.  Use this.  If you take to it, you may keep it."_

Her fingers rubbed together instinctively as the warmth of the memory filled her.

"I learned when I was young," Natasha continued, "and brought my hook with me when I left my homeworld.  It was the easiest thing for me to carry--the only thing I could.  I had kept it in my waistband pocket.  It is all I have from my childhood, now.”

“You will show me how you use it,” he softly commanded as he placed the slender hook in her hand, “but not just yet.  Perhaps tomorrow.”

Natasha sighed to feel it touch her palm; immediately, her fingers met it and rolled it back and forth, catching the light in it.  The metal was warm thanks to his hand starting it off, but it was otherwise unaltered.  Closing it in her fingers and pressing it against her chest in gratitude, she finally breathed to calm herself.  Such a simple thing!  But it had given her true joy.  She knew all over again that she had been in those quarters too long to feel as she did just then, and yet, her relief was such that she did not care past the notice.

And she saw her in her usual place, her fingers turning over the recycled threads, making the sweater as she told the children what trees were...

“I will have Servant replicate the material I need,” Natasha answered at last, now feeling the hook neck's beautiful designs on her fingertips, worn from so many years of love and use.  But seeing his eyes still fixed upon her, his smile now turned slightly askance to regard her, she stood to set the memento on her bedside table, noting to herself that at least one thing there was personal to her, and in the open.  Always, she had kept it tucked away, hidden.  Now she would leave it out, by her resolve, and her immediate superior had asked her to show him her skill.  

"I will have Servant make me a box, too, to keep my materials," she said.

"Be certain it is all you require."

"I will tell her what I need.  I am particular about this."

"As you should be in all matters, Tasia."

She never thought she would feel so happy there--more, she never thought she would not mind the general knowing it.  She wanted to show him that one thing about her...a _true_ thing, from her heart.

That thing she could hold in her hands.  There was something left...of _her_.

The last time she had shown her heart to an outsider, it had been borne of an embarrassing error, and then she committed to it because she felt she must, to save face, to make it seem as though it did not matter.  He had been kind and open, but she had not been, and did not want to be.  Even so, it had mattered.  

This mattered, too, and even more because she had chosen for it to happen.  _She_ had chosen it, a thanks for his thoughtfulness, however cautious.  She wanted the general to be aware of one thing that gave her peace.

She eyed her wine glass.  She had only taken one that evening.  She was not drunk.  This was real.

She could not help her smile when she glanced back at her table and the little gleaming object there.

Minutes later, the servers came and whisked away their dinner, leaving the large, wooden table gleaming in the soft light.  Tokarel took Natasha by the arm and pleased her to stand, then touched her other arm to turn her.  Immediately, she felt her body prepare.  _It_ had trained quickly and well to know what to expect, as it always and necessarily had.  Now, it handled the new stimuli with ease.

Tokarel touched her sides then moved around her, admiring her form and gown, and then her eyes again as he came around again; his hands slipped down to touch her hands.  They were at rest at her sides, ready to let her gown fall.

But instead of reaching around her, his warm fingers slipped beneath hers and lifted them before her.  "I want you to undress yourself, Tasia," he whispered.  "I want to watch you bare yourself for me.  You are so beautiful, even more so as I come to know you.  I...  I want to watch your hands move over your body.  I want to watch you reveal yourself to the pleasure I shall serve you."

For all her ease of a moment before, Natasha felt a wash of surprise, even as her blood coursed at his voiced desire, so full of passion and promise, sure of how indeed he did so enjoy serving her, to stoke his pleasure with the achievement of hers, a challenge well met to inspire his finish.  She knew, too, how he would take a good deal of time getting to that end.  Without question, there was no contest with her awkwardness, which had been cut away by experience.

Now another lesson lay before her.

 _What this is doing to me..._ she thought, and she panicked a for a moment.  Behind her eyes, she saw herself in mirrors, in black and gold, tall, neat and straight--or before, on the Patoro, in brown and blue, thin but clean and ready to move.  Not a day went by without her remembering that she was not on her doomed homeworld anymore.  And yet, she had been proud on Turkana, too, in her oversized dun coat and dingy green bucket hat, and she remembered her red boots, too.  She had been so happy in them, among all her projects and collections, a special girl, adored by her parents...  All of those times, she had been so proud.  She knew what she could do and do well.

_What will this make of me?  How will this turn me out before the end?  What will I be in the end?  I am relieved to think I can do something I love here, but will I meet death with pride?_

_Al gecckorrho dioch'lu tik..._

Reaching to her side, she found her hooks.  She had not dressed herself in those clothes, so she could only hope she was pulling them correctly.  Doing so while holding Tokarel's disseminating gaze proved a challenge, but she willfully relaxed and took her time.  At last, her gown loosened a little, but did not fall away.  Considering Ivador's procedure a moment, Natasha moved her hands to the front and reached inside the seam to the bodice hooks.  

Before she could unclasp it, however, Tokarel reached out and touched her hands again, stilling her.  Then, placing his fingers on her cheeks, he stared deeply into her eyes.

"Tasia, we have spoken on this many times," he whispered.  He paused, tracing her cool skin.  "I know you may never be happy in this arrangement, for this is not what you wanted of your life.  I will never forget this.  However, I hope someday you will have contentment, that all that is provided you will bring you comfort.  I hope I may satisfy as many of your needs as I am able."

Yes, he had said it before, but Natasha's breath caught in response to his emotion, his sadness.  She had felt enough of her own of late that she felt it in him all the more.  And if she did not believe him completely, now, she at least wanted what he gave.  She would never see him in any romantic sense, preventing her from ever loving him: This had been a great relief to her from their first night, when he scoffed at the idea of requiring her love--she did want the contentment he had offered, comfort and maybe even friendship within the boundaries of her duty.  Experience readily told her how that worked, that she had to be the one to let that happen.  

With the acceptance of her past life being over and the understanding that Tokarel was both honor-bound to his part of the bargain and desirous to see to her desires, Natasha felt some confidence in the possibility of fulfilling his desire in return, and wanted it, as well.

"Touch me, Ajor," she said softly, still holding his dark eyes in hers as she maneuvered the last hooks apart and let her gown slide off her shoulders and arms to fall to her hips, knowing that the chill air would be eased when he obeyed.

With a slow, steadying breath, he reached out to her.

Feeling his warmth, she closed the distance.

===

Next: 11. Rising

D'Alaire M.  
© 2013  
swiftian@yahoo.com

**Author's Note:**

> "Irremission" was the first fanfic story I wrote, but being a huge TNG fan before VOY came out, this plot was the first fanfic I'd thought about writing. So much had been left in the air over the seasons: Scenarios didn't match up, other events could not have happened without dire consequences, and pat plot devices never followed up on nagged and annoyed. And so this story began to develop in my head, and it stuck there through my years writing P/T fanfiction. A few years ago, I rediscovered what I'd dabbled here and there and decided to flesh it out.
> 
> Please note that I pay no attention to "bookverse" in this story, and I have no idea what fanfic stories have come before this (purposefully, I have not sought any to save myself from distraction), having read but a little TNG fanfic in my tenure. "Rul'siat" is gleaned solely from the show and what I'd been thinking on all these years.
> 
> At present, the story's structure is planned as follows:  
> Book I: Chapters 1-7  
> Book II: Chapters 8-15  
> Book III: Chapters 16-24  
>  **Warnings:** While "Rul'siat" is Rated M for mature content and violence, each chapter varies greatly in its content. 
> 
> I choose not to use the warnings system (AO3) to avoid spoiling readers who would rather be surprised, but advise sensitive readers that the story contains sexual situations, involving minors in some instances, scenes depicting extreme violence, often committed by and to children, instances of torture, indications of rape and graphic descriptions of death, many involving children and/or underage individuals. Please contact me for details if desired.
> 
> Translations peppered throughout "Rul'siat" come courtesy of Oksana by way of Alpha Flyer, who kindly beta'd early on, and by el_esteleth, who has also signed on as beta as of chapter 8. My eternal thanks for their assistance!
> 
> ***Update (June, 2013): Am plugging through chapter 10 now, as it was largely written already, before I had changed the whole structure of the story. If real life cooperates, I should have it completed in far less time than the behemoth chapter 9 has taken. Thank you for reading!
> 
> ~~D'A


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